And I Must Scream
by AnimeMangaAngel
Summary: A series about the newly-minted Avengers, their triggers, their reactions, and a chance for much comfort to be spread by the rest of the team after one person (usually allotted two chapters) does the hurting. Warnings inside, on a by-chapter basis
1. Tony: Code Red

**[Chapter] Title: Code Red**

**[Chapter] Rating: **T (16+)

**[Chapter] Summary:** The team witnesses one of Tony's panic attacks. _They_ don't have much effect… Well, at least there's Harley, right?

Prompt at: . ?thread=38907881#t38907881

**[Chapter] Warnings:** Panic attack, mentions of depression, Tony breaks up with Pepper, EWE IM3, IM3 spoilers, language

"Avengers, _assemble!"_

Tony is the master of his tower; he _built_ it, of _course_ he is! With JARVIS's help, he knows everything that goes on in the renamed Avengers (nee Stark) Tower.

The way Steve's shout – augmented by JARVIS's speakers, utilized for just this purpose at times like these – rings through Tony's closed off, darkened room would have been par for the course at night. But it wasn't night, and the sound pierced Tony's head like a sledgehammer. He kind of wants to cry.

He's not a creep – that is to say, he doesn't care to watch his teammates during their more… intimate moments – but he does have JARVIS keeping track 24/7 of their vitals. That's really how it started, how he learned that – even with Iron Man, even under the heat of the Afghani sands, even as the only Avenger who fights with a clear mind who is also incidentally a civilian – he's not as crazy as he thought he might be.

There's things he's been through, it goes without saying, that as a civilian, he had no point of reference for. And after the fact, the way that he finds himself reacting to those events, those memories, those scars… Until the other Avengers agreed to live in his tower, until he got a chance to see those who'd been _trained_ for this kind of thing (as much as anyone can be trained for dealing with giant, telekinetic squids rising out of the water over Long Island beach, anyway), and slowly realized he wasn't alone. That didn't mean that he wanted to announce the fact this way, didn't mean that he wanted his weaknesses aired before the team in just under a week's time, all at once.

It took some time to recognize each of their tells, each of their hair triggers, helpless moments, points of determination (both _not_ to fall prey to their own demons and the point when there _is_ no other choice but to do so), and comforts. While Tony, himself, would not be enough in most cases to rouse his teammates, he prides himself in being able to bring them out of lesser attacks at least by being able to identify an attack, and get them what they _do_ need.

Of course, none of the rest of the team knows this. They all think the planning and calling and such are just in-built functions of JARVIS, and not something Tony keeps a _very _close eye on.

It's because, at heart, every single one of them are lonely, suspicious, paranoid survivors, to be honest. Tony gleefully adds himself to that pile. No one – well, _almost_ no one – is allowed to see him at his worst. If he has to drag himself hand over hand to his lab and initiate lock-down in a scene far too similar to when Ob—_Stane_ stole his reactor, so be it! A Stark's moment of weakness is not for others to witness. Too bad that it's not an option anymore.

He still doesn't feel bad, about watching his teammates when he did everything he could to hide himself.

Most of the time.

Everyone seems to have two stages – the first is a hyped-up version of a run-of-the-mill panic attack, which JARVIS calls 'Code [color of the Avenger in distress]', and announces to the other inhabitants as the situation arises and is recognized. The triggers for these vary for everyone, depending on how their day has gone, how much sleep they've had, how much stress they're under: obvious things.

Not just anyone can approach them in some cases, because only very certain people are recognized and can lead the afflicted out of their attack. Tony has had conversations with JARVIS to this affect, and whenever the need arises, the AI "has the tendency to" ask the most appropriate Avenger for assistance, depending on who – and how – someone is panicking.

When Bruce's Code Green is called, he's a little green around the eyes; he's always just a little out of breath; his hands clench and unclench without pause; and more often than not, he grinds his teeth. His file says that Betty Ross could bring him out of a Code Green almost faster than it could rise up… but she's not around. The only one he reliably recognizes (and doesn't see as a threat) is Clint, because in this stage, at the tipping point of a Hulk-out, his coherency is even worse than it is as the Hulk. If anyone else approaches him, Bruce is more likely to convince himself that they're there to lock him up, and then he Hulks out. He has almost inhuman control of his emotional state, for obvious reasons, but he's had enough Code Green's in the last year (since the tower was filled by the Avengers) that Clint can reliably and comfortably talk him down in about half an hour or so.

When Code Purple is called on Clint, it's usually a little late (and Tony will never tell Clint that his is 'purple' because, with his SHIELD-issue black suit and Natasha's already-taken color, Tony just decided to point out the fact that he was straight as his drawn bow. In the most crass way available, of course; he's Tony.). Clint tends to hole up in his nests – buried in the ventilation system that Tony specifically re-engineered to be _just_ large enough for a man Clint's size and flexibility to climb around, with slightly larger pockets to nest in – when his wits escape him. He is a strange one as far as the team goes, because he tends to _recognize_ everyone, but that doesn't stop his panic. He generally comes out of it on his own after two or three hours. If that doesn't work, Either Natasha or Phil will crawl after him; a day later, they'll return, and act like they were never missing to begin with.

Natasha's Code Black is dangerous. She _is_ a trained assassin, after all. She gets colder than usual, and her words get clipped, short, perhaps disappear altogether. Tony and JARVIS know her heart rate speeds up incrementally, but it's only enough to be noticeable if compared _after_ the fact, so it's not really helpful. Other than that, no one really notices when she freaks out – even Phil and Clint, who've known her the longest, and know her the best, sometimes have trouble spotting it in her. But like Bruce, she has an uncanny recognition of her own emotional states, and usually takes it in her own hands, either signing up for a brutal two or three-day mission, or holing up in her floor on almost total lock-down. Only Clint and Phil are allowed on her floor when she gets like that.

Phil is a special case – he is for all of them, really. They got attached to his little Agent soul, and then he apparently died. There really was no helping how they all grew that much more attentive to him when out of the blue, one day, he showed up pressed and polished at the Tower door, claiming that Director Fury was done trying to find a suitable handler for his Initiative team (consequently, none of the Avengers trust Nick 'The-Lying-Liar-Who-Lies' Fury anymore). His Code Grey is a regular old panic attack: shaky hands, out of breath, panicky, chest pains, lasting only for ten to fifteen minutes. But all of the team does their best to be there for Phil when it happens, and he's cognizant enough to recognize and accept any of them, even if he doesn't so much appreciate the over-crowding that happens when they get over-concerned about him.

Thor's Code Yellow is pretty tame in comparison to everyone else's. He grew up in a society that expected him to participate in great battles, and love them. Panic attacks really don't factor into that kind of upbringing; it's just not in his psyche to panic over a fight or enemy long-passed. Most of his Code Yellow's occur just as he's waking from a nightmare, are usually about Loki at his worst, and only last long enough for Thor to wake up… there's still copious amounts of thunder and static charge, though – in an electronically-savvy place like the tower, they have to be careful when Thor hits his bad days. JARVIS, suffice it to say, is never amused.

More like his human counterparts than most would expect of the genetically-enhanced super-soldier, Steve's own Cody Blue really are just panic attacks, like Phil's. That's what everyone misses when they see Steve – the man has been _enhanced,_ but not _altered_. He's at the peak of human condition, and it's amazing what he can do, but at the end of the day he's still only human. He's not been trained passed subconscious levels, like government agencies have a tendency to do to their action-oriented operatives, like Clint and Natasha. Tony is thankful for that – it means that Steve's Code Blue's don't last too long, and the biggest danger anyone is in when he goes under is that maybe he forgets himself for a moment or two, and grips someone's arms tightly enough to bruise. Steve's so conscious of himself that, even lost in the haze of a panic attack, he'd never break bone.

And then there's Tony.

As stated before, even if it dredged up memories of the time his figurative _heart_ was ripped out of his chest, he's vain enough to try and keep his issues out of the lime light. But even the best of precautions fail eventually. No system can calibrate for _every possible outcome, period_ and still function. This just doesn't happen to be his week.

Three days ago, the team had convened on the communal floor, as per schedule. Phil had been determined to bring the team together outside of battle, come hell or high water, when he first showed up, and it had manifested in Movie Night. Every Thursday, barring calls to assemble.

Even Tony could admit, it had been fun to culturally educate Thor and Steve, and to see just what everyone preferred in a movie. And to bond without bloodshed, but it wouldn't be said aloud.

This, however, was not fun.

Clint had decided to go with a classic, revamped, in the 2009 reboot of Star Trek. That would have been fine… if Tony'd recalled in enough time to brace himself for the appearance of the big-ass wormhole in the middle of space. Bracing oneself for a known trigger is enough to withstand it for short periods, if one has the mental wherewithal and appropriate time from the incident in question that it no longer is an immediate concern – that was where Tony had firmly situated himself for about six months now. Something as small as a passing mention in casual conversation – there and gone again, in place of a new piece of conversation – of the Battle wouldn't reduce him to gasping shakes. But being blindsided by a giant wormhole in the latest piece of entertainment?… Damn it all.

He'd taken one long, lasting look at the swirling vortex of Enterprise-doom, felt the phantom pull of his own Cube-powered menace, and was staggering back from the entertainment system – and his unsuspecting teammates – before he was really aware of moving at all. He'd stopped panicking at the drop of a hat months ago, so this one hit him all the worse for the recent reprieve.

Several cries of shock and alarm hung distantly in his roaring ears as he thumped, hard and real, against the back wall furthest from the television, then slumped down to curl around his up-drawn knees. A tiny voice in the back of his mind informed him sardonically that he was really going to regret that decision to stop at the quickest 'safe spot', but he ignored it easily: that rational voice would be loud enough again, given either ten or fifteen minutes for the attack to burn out on its own, or something to knock it loose.

"Sir, I'm detecting a Code Red. Shall I initiate the Tennessee Protocol?" JARVIS requested on the edge of his hearing. The others began babbling, their combined noise drowning out any response Tony might've made; they were a bright lot, and knew well-enough to figure out what Code Red meant, even if they'd never _heard_ it before.

Part of Code Red's process was that if Tony _didn't_ tell JARVIS to stop (or, alternatively, didn't say anything at all), then the AI was to go ahead with the TP. After a long pause, presumably as the TP was activated, for the first time since he laid eyes on the graphics of the Trekkie wormhole, Tony heard a voice clearly, sounding from JARVIS's speakers.

"Mr. Stark? It's ten at night… Are you okay? JARVIS called."

"A kid?" Tony heard Clint sputter.

"Huh? What's—Who's that? JARVIS, you are the one who called, right? My mom's gonna be mad if I'm on the phone this late for no reason," Harley Keener stated haltingly over the line.

"I am the one who requested you, young master, as per protocol. Sir is having… difficulties." JARVIS soothed the boy. For a moment, there was silence, as everyone involved tried to figure out what was going on.

"Ah, Tony," Harley sighed, realization coloring his tone. "Are you panicking again? 'Cause I swear it wasn't me this time!"

"… kid…!" Tony groan-gasped passed his fear-tight lungs, managing to roll his eyes and convey disdain nonetheless.

"Well it wasn't," Harley responded defensively. "But that's not—Listen Tony, you need to breathe, okay? JARVIS, what's going on?"

"We are in the Tower, young master. It is movie night; an unwise presentation was airing."

"'Unwise'?" Bruce murmured under his breath, sharing a concerned glance with Natasha.

"I—" Harley audibly sighed, but it had fond undertones. "Only you, Mr. Stark, only you. Fine: distractions!"

And in true Harley-fashion, he began to babble, much to the bemusement of the Avengers who were currently _not_ having a panic attack. "Umm… I'm working on a project for the Science Fair at school? Yeah, I got some ideas from some of the stuff you left in my garage – mom was surprised by the way. Some stranger comes by, helps me out of trouble, while filling me with sugar and giving me access to a dangerous mechanical suit, then leaves thousands of dollars worth of stuff in our garage for me? Yeah… I had a hard time convincing her it was okay; I think it was the letter you sent that really convinced her. What kid is gonna be visited by _Tony_ _Stark,_ am I right? Uh… Well, she's seeing someone again. Don't know _how_ I feel about him, but _she _likes him… What else, what else… Hm… Oh, I really liked that robotics kit you sent me for my birthday! But I never did tell you when it was did I?… Do—Do you even know how old I was turning? That doesn't seem like something you'd take the time to figure out, honestly…! It's twelve, for the record. The box said it was for 18-and-older; do they not know what preteens are capable of, or what? I mean, so I'm a little adv—"

"Kid," Tony tried to butt in, able to breathe with reliability again.

Harley barreled on, unaware of Tony's recovery, "—ced for my age group, but only just a _little,_ really, I'm not that ba—"

"Harley!" Tony snapped. Abruptly, the flood of words ceased, leaving behind an abashed silence. "Thank you. But no, seriously: thanks, kid. I—uh, really, that was… great. Yeah."

"You're welcome," and Tony could _hear_ the comfortable knowing in Harley's voice. He knew just as well as Tony how difficult it was to admit that help had been needed, had been received, and – more than that – had been grudgingly, gratefully received. "So you're okay now?"

"Right as rain, kid," he grunted.

"Huh. Well, stay clear of movies, okay? I mean, it's gotta be tough enough just _living_ there, right? No need to make it worse."

"… Harley!"

"What? I didn't actually _say_ anything!"

"Yes, thank you! Harley Keener, ladies and gentlemen, the semantics expert!" Tony snarked.

"Are you seeing a therapist yet?"

"Shut up. Shut up and go to bed; boys your age shouldn't even be awake right now, should they? Don't you have, like, a bedtime or something? Seven o'clock is… usually a kid's bedtime, right JARVIS?"

"Seven?" Harley spluttered, offended. "I'm _twelve, _Tony, not _five!"_

"Of course you are; but, bedtime? You have one, don't you? Surely your mother—"

"Yes! Yes, okay, I've got a bedtime. If you _have to know,_ it's in an hour."

"No it's not – it's right now."

"What? Why?!"

"Because I said so. Go – get off the phone. Go to bed; you've done your job. Thank you and good night!" Tony dismissed him in the usual, brisk Stark manner, even waving his hand (and conveniently ignoring the sheen of sweat still on his face from moments ago).

Harley huffed audibly over the line, and then – in a softer, more affectionate tone, unknowingly mirroring those who put up with Tony willingly on a daily basis – Harley muttered, "Yeah, alright – I'll go. I'm _not_ going to bed, but I'll get off the phone. Have a good night, Tony."

Tony would never admit it, but a hint of affection seeped into his voice as he muttered in reply, "G'night, Harley. Sleep well."

The call disconnected with a faint click. And then Tony remembered – far too belatedly to do anything about it that could salvage his dignity – about the others. They were standing in a loose ring around where he'd pressed himself against the wall what felt like forever ago, nobody too close, but also nobody farther away than the middle of the room. Each of them wore expressions – or, lacking that, in the case of a super-composed Phil and Natasha, gave off the air of – confusion, concern, and hesitant guessing. It was Steve who finally spoke up.

"Tony," and his voice was laced with heavy concern, and just a bit of the Captain Tone, "What was that?"

"It was nothing." Nobody could accuse him of not trying.

"Tony." The concern was still etched into that face, but Steve was in full Captain-mode now – he was in charge, and he expected to be answered.

"A Code Red," Tony threw out, hoping to win the proverbial lottery and be able to get around the conversation, just this once, by being truthful but vague.

Unfortunately for Tony, vague was all well and good, but Steve wasn't stupid, either. His blue gaze sharpened, flickered up to the ceiling, over to Tony, back to the paused movie, and again to Tony before he nodded. "That vortex—"

"Let it go, Capsicle!" Tony snapped, too close to a snarl to be anything other than uncomfortable, desperate.

"We all have bad memories, Stark," Natasha slipped in, eyes sharp.

"And we can work around them," Phil volunteered calmly, "but only if we know they exist in the first place. Having trouble with something is normal – we've all got our triggers, it's part of the job – but we won't know that we need to do anything if you approach a trigger if we don't know it doesn't exist."

Tony ducked his head, avoiding gazes as his fists clenched at his sides and his team ganged up on him.

"It sounded like that boy knew what was going on, Tony. I'm sure Clint never would've picked that movie if he'd known you would've had problems with it." Bruce insisted.

"Of course!"Clint yelped, earnest. "That's what we do for everyone. Damn, Stark, I didn't mean to choose something that would prod sensitive places; you're just so quiet about everything that nobody knew you _needed_ that kind of consideration! Here I was, thinking you were some sort of super-civilian, too."

"I'm fine!" Tony protested, unwilling to meet anyone's eye.

"Obviously you're not, Tony," Steve disagreed. "That was a break down, pure and simple."

"Man of Iron," Thor offered his opinion, voice subdued and concerned. "Shield-brothers know about one another. It is part of the warrior's pact, part of fighting alongside your brother, to know their deepest fears as they know your own. It is not the way, to hide yourself from us."

"Hide myself from you…?" Tony echoed, and heard his own words from far away. His chest tingled with building rage, and he staggered to his feet, finally meeting searching gazes. He watched dispassionately as they flinched away from his fierce eyes and the tight, rictus grin his teeth had stretched into. A harsh bark of laughter pulled incredulously from his throat. "_Hide myself_ from you?!"

"Fuck that!" His arm swept wildly out, as though to strike one of them though they were all farther away than his arm's reach, or to swipe the conversation away.

"You want to know what's bothering me? Where the fuck were all of you after that battle, then, when I was waking up from fucking nightmares three and four and five times a damn night?! Where were you when Pepper was trying to keep me together, when all that made sense to me was building more and better suits?! Where the _fucking hell_ were _any of you_ when the Mandarin took over _all the **American television networks,**_ when bombs were_ launched at my** home,**_ or when the news_ was sure I was dead?! Where the fuck **were** you?"_

"What I know is that, after diving head-first into a wormhole with a nuke on my back, what we did was grab Loki, send him back to Asgard, and went our damn separate ways. What I do know was that I did my best to pull myself back together. What I know was that I tried to do it by dating Pepper, and screwing us both over – I wasn't ready for a committed relationship, and she didn't deserve to deal with my shit both in her professional and her private life.

"What I _do_ know was that, at the end of the day, the _only one_ who was willing to listen to me – because you weren't here, Rhodey and Pepper wouldn't hear me out, and Happy hardly ever saw me because of his new job – was a ten year old kid whose garage I crashed for supplies, in Tennessee, in the middle of winter! What I do know was that Harley was the only one who was there for me without reserve, and… And he's the only one I can count on."

By the end of his tirade he'd worn himself down, and the last sentence was a raw whisper. The others were wide-eyed and stunned into pained silence, and Tony found himself quietly filling the space in with more words, because if he could do anything, it was talk.

"Pepper knew I had a bad time of it only because we slept together. But most of the time, I didn't _sleep_ in the bed, so she didn't even realize how bad it had gotten until I came clean. Rhodey is my best friend, but I'm not an idiot: I'm a _really_ hard person to be a friend for. He hasn't had a good sense of my reputation or the things I do for a really long time; he's always ready for the next screw up. I couldn't come to him with something like that. Happy was my body guard and my driver, not my confidant. He was so excited to have a job that didn't make people laugh at him, after the whole 'Iron Man's bodyguard' thing, that he hardly ever saw me; that was okay, because he was interested in Pepper anyway – if he was focused on her, I could know she'd be safe.

"When they came at the mansion with enough fire-power to take down an army… I was so scared that Pepper would die. Pepper, who has nothing to do with any of this, except that she is one of the few people who are close to me. And then the house was gone, the armors were gone, and the only link I had to JARVIS was the experimental suit I was wearing. And even that disappeared, when I crashed in Tennessee. I was completely and utterly alone. The last time that happened, I drunk-engineered the world's first high-functioning AI – Dummy – just so I wouldn't—" he faltered, a bitter laugh surprised out of him, and the others flinched, "So I wouldn't have to be _so fucking **alone."**_

"But when I party-crashed this—this _kid's_ workspace, and he came at me with a damn _potato gun, _of all things… He stopped. He listened. I mean, he _really_ listened." And Tony hated just how broken open he sounded by that concept, here, now, in front of his teammates. He was not weak. He wasn't. Grimly, thinking of Harley, he chuckled, "Sure, I mean, at first he was even more fucking likely than anyone to _cause_ a panic attack – kid couldn't shut up about the important stuff if his life depended on it – but he was just as quick to turn right back around and try to fix it, try to distract me, try to bring me back and make the world make sense again."

"Do you even know what it's like, for a guy like me – who has just _intuitively_ _knows_ what the world can throw at him since he was little – to suddenly _not _know? All the little cogs of the universe just… made sense, or if they didn't, I could figure them out, and then fate decides to just… toss this little screwball in my direction. And the one stable thing in my world was a ten year old kid with an over-worked single mother, absent father, and a view of the world very similar to my own at his age. He's brilliant, you know. And he was my solid rock when the Mandarin came knocking.

"So don't – just _don't_ – come up to me like you know what the fuck's been going on in my life. Don't assume that just because we fought together that you get the keys to my head. Don't think that just because you're the first people I've offered into my home, into my personal space, into my private life – and the first people who have taken it up, and used it, and not run away yet, because one day you'll realize how stupid this is, and then you'll be gone, too – that you can just lord this over me. Just don't." He snarled softly, furious and worn down and broken and bleeding and hurt and desperate and embarrassed all at once.

They all had varying levels of hurt on their faces, of shame and discomfort and guilt. Usually that didn't work on Tony. But even more than he was willing to admit, he had gotten quickly attached to Bruce; somehow, someway, that even the other scientist had never intended – because he was a painful little recluse at the best of times, thanks to the Other Guy – Bruce had gotten under Tony's skin. And with Bruce all contrite like that…

"What if we didn't assume it was due us?" he asked softly, shyly. "What if… What if we, well, asked? What happened, that is? What, then?"

Tony spent a precious few seconds just digesting that, unaware how vulnerable his crumpled expression was. He blinked and it cleared, and the fierce look in his eyes was normal. He grinned savagely at his Science Brother as he grabbed the mousy-haired man by his elbow and towed him out of the room. He wasn't ready for more than an audience-of-one right now. But it was enough.

He flopped onto the over-sized couch in his lab and carelessly directed Bruce into his rolling chair. With a great, Starkian flourish of his arms, he declared in a superior tone, "You asked for it, Brucey!"

Then he heaved a great sigh, as it occurred to him just what he was doing, and in a much more subdued tone, he offered, "A famous man once said, 'We create our own demons.'… Who said that, what does it even mean, doesn't matter – I said it 'cause he said it. So, now, he was famous, and it's basically getting said by two well-known guys…"

"I don't—Uh…" Tony winced as he realized, in his nervousness, he'd rambled right off the subject. "Let me start again," he offered, and Bruce grinned knowingly, nodding, a hint of sleep at the late hour crinkling his eyes. "Let's track this from the beginning – it started in Bern, Switzerland, 1999…"

And he spent the next three hours waxing poetic about his fight against the Mandarin, his work in nowhere-town, Tennessee, and Aldrich Killian.

"… and so, as Christmas morning began, my journey had reached it's end. You start with something pure, something exciting, then come the mistakes, the compromises. We create our own demons. As promised, I got Pepper sorted out; took some tinkering, but then I thought to myself: 'Why stop there?'"

Again, Tony winced, admitting, "Of course, you know how that went. When a practiced surgeon like Yensin tells you that there's no way to remove all the shrapnel without killing the patient, you listen. Otherwise, you go into surgery with great hopes… and come out with an even greater dependence on the continued existence of the Arc Reactor in your chest, and a renewed need to tinker. Pepper was _not_ happy – I still had one suit, and I had yet another reason to mess with it even in peace time – so once more, I am single. But, well, hey: Iron Man's still an asset to the Avengers since we actually started being a team! You're not stuck with a version of me that – without the power of a reactor – can't power an Iron Man suit, and ends up just being, like, the 'team mechanic', or something equally cheesy."

Tony looked up to discover Bruce had fallen asleep. He was okay with that, surprisingly; now, he could maybe get up the courage to tell the others (or, even better, just have JARVIS run the recording of this rendition). So he'd done what Tony Stark just didn't do: he'd bared his soul, he'd trusted one of his teammates, and he'd admitted to himself that leaning on these people probably (might be) a (maybe) good thing, after all.

… And still, within the space of three days, fate decided he needed one more screwing over.


	2. Tony: Iron Alert

**Chapter Title: Iron Alert**

**Chapter Rating:** T (16+)

**Chapter Summary:** Fate is just determined to show Tony's team his bones, bare and scraped raw, isn't she?

Prompt at: . ?thread=38897129#t38897129

**Chapter Warnings:** Phantom pains, mention of PTSD, off-screen nightmares, EWE IM3, unintentional guilt-trip, language

With as much carnage as each of the Avengers has seen over their lives, it isn't unreasonable to think that they might be susceptible to more than just a 'panic attack' (or Avenger-equivalent, as encountered). And Tony prides himself on being able to think of most eventualities.

That's why, for every Code, there's also a leveled-up warning, in the form of Alerts.

With how super-human-strong most of the Avengers have the potential to become, it's imperative that the others are warned as soon as possible that something has happened, and the better-informed they are about the relative mental state of their companions during said times, the better. It makes for a quicker response time, a reduction in property and personnel damages, and ensures that all the members of the Avengers can be assured that – even when they aren't in their right minds – their teammates know how to handle them. Trusting your teammates to catch you when you're falling is a good thing, according to all those teamwork exercises Steve was always pushing on them, anyway.

Like their Codes, each of the Alerts is personalized. When he programmed them in, Tony'd already used colors, and he just decided that creativity could go shove itself – their codenames would work as well as anything.

The Hulk Alert is the one that goes off the most often. If Bruce is worse than Code Green, then he's Hulked out, no 'if's, 'and's, or 'but's about it. The Hulk is better about acknowledging each of the Avengers as friends, since the Battle, but when he pulls a Hulk without battle-prompting, the person he seems to be the most comfortable with is Clint. If Clint's not around – unlike a Code Green – the others can talk the Hulk down, too, though. It's really just a matter of assessing what set him off in the first place, and fixing it; when not in battle, the Hulk is actually super-docile when he wants to be.

The Hawk Alert is one of the more dangerous ones. Clint gets completely lost in a memory of an old op, and super-imposes it on reality. He is just as likely to shoot at any of them as he is to ignore, or even try to 'save' one of them, except Phil – even Natasha is not exempt. During a Hawk Alert, the only way to bring him down is to knock him out, or get Phil in a place – either physically, or with a comm that they somehow get into Clint's ear – where he can talk Clint back to reality. It helps that Coulson knows almost every single op that Clint was ever assigned, as the agent's only handler in all his employment at SHIELD.

The Widow Alert is a toss-up. Either she recognizes what's going on, and chooses to voluntarily channel her energy into drinking every one of them expect Thor under the table, or she loses herself to the lie that the Red Room told her of her life – of parents that never existed, of a passion for ballet, of a job and a home that was never more than a flimsy cover – and has a civilian-style freak-out (in Russian) after finding herself in a tower and surrounded by people she does not recognize. The best way to bring her out of it is to either show her the ballet studio-slash-training room on her floor and let her dance it out, or to wait until she falls asleep. During the Alert, there is zero recognition – or trust – of any of them; all they can do is manipulate events so she comes out of it as peacefully as possible.

Just like Phil's Code is super-mild in comparison to the others, so is his Agent Alert. Basically, if pushed far enough, he reaches beyond Code-level panic attack, and into shock. Actual shock – shakes, sweats, shallow and rapid heartbeat, hyperventilation, the whole shebang. While it's nowhere near as destructive as the other Alerts in the Tower, and while Phil reliably recognizes everyone, it's still more imperative to his health to treat his shock than it is for any of the others' and their immediate health to be brought out of their Alerts; it's a medical issue, in his case, more than a mental one.

Thunder Alert is difficult to handle. Instead of a battle rage, when Thor finally – rarely – gets pushed over the edge, he gets melancholy to the nth degree. He will grow unresponsive and despondent, the heavens will break open with great torrents of rain and heavy rumbles of thunder, and he losses all contact with reality. So far, it's only happened once, and after four days and no response, they finally called Doctor Foster up on Skype, and she was able to coax him out of his depression. He disappeared after that for two days – apparently, it was to go see Jane in the flesh. Tony doesn't know how long Thor could have kept that up, without Jane's intervention, and frankly, he doesn't want his teammates to be in such a bad place that they have to find out.

America Alert frightening to witness. In spite of the very _human_ nature of his Code, it is Steve's Alert that brings to mind just how different the Serum made him. Like Thor, he gets lost in his own mind, unaware of the world around him, but like Clint, it's because he's experiencing something else entirely. He, for all intents and purposes, gets hypothermic. It doesn't matter how hot it is, or how normal his temperature _actually_ reads – he shivers so hard that even if he were coherent there'd be no room for _words_, he mumbles and moans incomprehensibly, he tenses up, his lips go blue and the rest of him goes pale, his breath goes worryingly shallow. They nearly have to over-heat him most of the time, to just try and make him coherent enough to understand what his subconscious is doing to him, if they can't get his attention otherwise. Much to Tony's confusion, _he_ is the one who is most likely able to bring the Super Soldier back, with pats to his face, rubbing his arms, and a constant stream of reassurance and simple 'hear my voice, I am speaking to you' babble.

And, again, then there's Tony.

Unlike the others, his own Alert isn't a fall-out into something 'greater than' a panic attack – that is to say, the one doesn't usually come after the other, as in the other Avengers' cases. He doesn't need to have a panic attack, and be pushed beyond that – he can't be; he's too caught up in his own mind (and too familiar with a situation like being drunk, and caffeine-high, while running on less than three-hours' sleep in four days) for a loss of reality like that to be possible. No, his Alerts are almost like clockwork, and are completely physical in nature… well, until the pain makes him flashback, but those are effects, not causes.

After pouring his heart out to Bruce, he had to escape – getting up the courage to reveal himself, and then getting up the courage to overcome decades of conditioning and stick around immediately after the unveiling are two very separate things. So he'd been holed up in his lab for two days when his chest began to twinge, and his base temperature began to rise, and he cursed, doing what he could to wrap up his projects for a long two days laid up. This was the 'clockwork' aspect of his Alert: about every six months, he'd get these mild symptoms, and they were a warning for the next two days, which would be filled with delirious fever, spiking phantom pain around his reactor, and miserable incoherency.

That was the Iron Alert. That was what Tony had also kept from his teammates; at four days a year, there was a very small chance, indeed, that a call to Assemble would come on his bad days. He'd been lucky so far.

But he'd been in solitary down in his lab for two days already, and his team was getting more and more involved in his personal life… He hoped that they could hold out for two more days, or – more likely – that JARVIS could redirect their attentions. JARVIS had yet to fail him. It was his only chance; there was only so much he could be exposed to others before he began to cross his own tolerance level. They see him come up from his lab, and he doesn't try to hide – it's when you look like you're hiding something that people like his teammates get suspicious – he just says he's spent so long in his lab that JARVIS has locked everything down until such time as he gets a decent rest. So, yeah, he's gonna be in his room, of course.

And then, with barely five minutes interaction, he disappeared once more.

When he woke at four in the morning hours later, it's because he's burning up. He was soaked in sweat, shivering uncontrollably, his vision was wavering, and in spite of the chills wracking his body in the backwards fashion of all horrible fevers, a truly burning, tearing, boiling, twisting _pain_ radiates endlessly from the glowing piece of machinery lodged in his chest. Tony moans pitifully, only partially aware of the noises that he's making, and JARVIS's voice – specifically modulated for hangovers, head injuries that amplified feelings of nausea with loud noises, and Iron Alerts – sounded carefully from the speakers.

"Sir, I have initiated procedure for Iron Alert; you will be fine in approximately 46 hours, 18 minutes. Please, sir… Just breathe. It will be over, soon," his electronic voice was tinted heavily with concern and compassion.

When a spike of rising pain stole his breath and set white sparks dancing across his sight, Tony wheezed in inarticulate pain and fell into a fevered memory of Afghanistan. He curled on his side and shivered in the warm darkness of his room. He clung desperately to his sanity with tooth and nail, and to JARVIS's calm, voiced presence with everything else.

For the next few hours, he drifted erratically in and out of coherency, consciousness, and fever-laden dreams and hallucinations. Under JARVIS's calm, steady, and _insistent_ instruction, he slowly made his way from the sweat-sopping sheets of his bed to the chilled tiles of the bathroom, where JARVIS had set up a gentle shower spray of slightly-cooler-than-room-temperature water. The water felt nice on his flushed skin, soothing both his fever and his pain, and kept him marginally more aware than just laying in bed. When JARVIS was finally able to coax him back to bed, it was to fresh sheets and a new set of pajama pants, ostensibly provided by one of the numerous cleaning robots active throughout the Tower (because after Stane's betrayal, Tony refused to risk the security of his home for anything, even a maid service). It was in this way that his Iron Alert was broken up into moments of calm – either bathing, or supplied with small bits of food – thanks to JARVIS's actions.

According to the glowing numbers on the bedside table – when Tony was roused not by JARVIS's carful tones but the Captain's sharp bark of, "Avengers, _assemble_!" – there were about 15 hours left of his Iron Alert. So Tony kind of wants to cry, because it's been a _rough _four days.

There was _no way_ he was fit for active duty, not like this. But he couldn't think of an excuse fast enough to be good enough for a Captain America in Mission Mode; Tony could feel his heart racing faster as he began to panic.

"I'm afraid Sir has taken ill, Captain," JARVIS murmured (and Tony calmed, because JARVIS had a handle on it; and he was grateful, that JARVIS had seen fit to route his answer to both Steve and Tony, so Tony would know what was going on) respectfully, "He has been in no condition to leave his room to get something from the common area, let alone leave the Tower to fight foes, for some time."

"I—JARVIS, what?" Steve's voice was a mix of shock, concern, frustration, and annoyance. "Why didn't Tony let us _know_ he wasn't doing well?! Never mind; we'll make do. We have to. But JARVIS, please let Tony know that, when we get back, we will be having _words_ about this, will you, please?"

"Of course, Captain," JARVIS demurred, though even Tony, not at his best, could hear the faint note of defensive protectiveness in the mechanical voice in reaction to Steve's frustrated tone. Tony smiled faintly, warmed by the show of affection. "We will be waiting. Return safely."

Of all the quirks JARVIS had acquired over the years, one that Tony found endearing and encouraging, as one of the sure-fire indicators that JARVIS was a fully-functioning and autonomous AI system. That he showed human emotions, such as concern, especially when Tony'd never programmed it, was amazing to his creator. Whenever Tony had to go out as Iron Man, JARVIS was alright because he was right there in the suit with Tony, but whenever any of the other Avengers went out on missions that didn't require Iron Man, he would bid them farewell in that manner: 'Return safely.' Apparently, his affection for the team went beyond any unintentional slights they might have made at Tony.

Dimly, Tony heard the Captain signing off. A few moments later, the roar of the Quinjet taking off from the Tower's roof rattled his windows.

"The Tower has been vacated, sir. Shall I hack into the comms and keep tabs?"

"Yeah," Tony rasped, concerned for his teammates. In spite of that, five minutes into JARVIS's blow-by-blow, another round of pain swamped him, blowing his awareness – and his wavering lucidity – out the proverbial window.

He came around to an absurdly gentle pair of arms scooping him out of his twisted sheets. Beyond the fuzziness of his current level of concentration, he could make out JARVIS speaking, and frowned, burying himself in the warm chest of his transportation with a reluctant whine. He didn't _care_ if the AI said it was high-time for another shower; he didn't want to _move, _it _hurt._ He whined again, louder, as he was settled against the shower's tile and carefully disrobed, eyes clenched shut against the intrusion of the harsh bathroom lights. Only when the soothing rain of water began did Tony realize he'd been _carried, _and that, whoever it was, was still there, gently rubbing shampoo into his aching head while he slumped against them.

"…'re alright, Tony. You're okay. That's it – see? Isn't this better than that mess of a bed you've got? JARVIS says the water should help with your temperature, and I've always felt better after getting clean, while I don't feel good," Steve was murmuring, a steady stream of words like JARVIS had done: not counting on Tony to answer or even understand him, but talking for the billionaire's benefit, to ease his subconscious. "We're still going to talk about this, later, Tony. Just because you're ill doesn't mean you get away from the unpleasant consequences of not trusting _your team._ But you do need to get better first. You're gonna be okay. It feels like the water's helping with your fever, too – doesn't it feel nice? I bet it does. Always felt nice to me, too, back when I was a stick that could catch anything and everything…"

Through the whole ordeal, Tony blinked heavily, hovering between awareness and unconsciousness, letting Steve's monologue wash over him like the water. JARVIS was great – JARVIS was awesome – but having another living, breathing _person_ around, not just talking to him but _touching him, _grounding him through the haze of heat and pain… that was nice.

It was as Steve was tucking the newest set of sheets around him (and settling into a _chair_ by his bed? Since when did he have a _chair_ by his bed?!) that Tony shook the lethargy free and truly surfaced again, and JARVIS was quick to notice.

"Sir, are you awake?" his voice was curt with the frustration that comes from worrying but being unable to _do_ anything about it. Tony flinched guiltily, realizing what had more-than-likely occurred. The AI confirmed it, "I would appreciate being _listened to, _in the future. I realize you had not desired the team to know of the existence of the Iron Alert, but when you would not respond to me, I had to enlist a physical presence. Captain Rogers was more than willing to assist. I am but a voice in the walls, sir – when I ask you to do things, it is up to you to do them, especially if you are ill and the instructions are to your benefit."

"Sorry, J," Tony offered, his voice a slurring rasp. "Didn't mean t'; don't 'member."

If he'd programmed a sigh-routine into JARVIS's vocals, Tony was sure the AI would be using it; as it was, there was a small but poignant pause before he answered. "That is what I assumed, sir."

"I would appreciate it if," JARVIS continued, wryly, knowing he couldn't be obeyed and yet – like a human – unable to _not_ voice some kind of protest, "in the future, you did your best to not worry me so. It is most difficult to be bound here and yet unable to assist you in your time of greatest need."

"Sorry, JARVIS," Tony repeated, as helpless to keep himself from worrying JARVIS as he was helpless to avoid the Iron Alerts. "'ll try."

"Alright, now," Steve hummed, and Tony's gaze whipped around in surprise, catching on blue, attentive eyes, "I've already said I'll be your hands for this, JARVIS. And you're nearing the end of your Alert, Tony – you're looking a little less peaky. Close your eyes; try to get some rest. We can discuss whatever issues anyone has with Tony's ability to _follow orders_ when he's well, I think."

"Of course, Captain. Thank you, again," JARVIS complied, graciously.

For Tony's part, his eyes were already closing on him, as his body recognized what Steve had just given voice to. At least on the tail-end, Tony could be mostly assured that his hallucinations were more or less over, and that the worst Steve would be exposed to was maybe one or two more dramatic fluctuations in his temperature, and some sleep talking. The last thing he wanted was for the Super Soldier to see him at his literal, screaming worst.

For the next ten hours, Steve hovered nearby and acted – as promised – as JARVIS's hands. It was nice, in it's own way, because it meant that Tony was carried to the shower instead of having to stumble there on his own weak limbs, and that a gentle hand carded through his hair when Steve thought he was asleep. Tony had a sneaking suspicion that Steve and JARVIS had already come to an agreement, and that Steve would be returning for the next Alert… he wasn't so fond of _that_ development.

And – also as promised – the next day, Tony was sat down by the other Avengers, and forced to explain the phenomena of his Iron Alerts. So now, not only did they all know about his panic attacks, but they knew about the rebellion of his body against that very thing which was keeping him alive. If things went their way – that they would be made aware of his Alerts, just as everyone was told of any other Alert – and they _would,_ because JARVIS had always told him he was stupid for keeping himself so isolated from the team, soon everyone would know him at his worst.

They would see the scars that Afghanistan left – both physical and emotional. They would hear bits and pieces (as he sobbed and screamed, mid-hallucination) of his past. They would know what his weak points were. (Just as he knew theirs. He did his best to protect them from their hurts, or – barring that – to protect them _during_. There was no reason they would not do the same. Right?)

And somehow – in spite of how _raw,_ and _open,_ and _exposed_ the last couple of days had left him – somehow, Tony felt like more a part of the team then ever before.

(It was nice – wonderfully new – to see Steve smile at him in relief and joy and companionship, when his fever finally broke, and he finished coming down from his Alert. He wouldn't mind that again, even if everything else would take some getting used to.)


	3. Thor: Code Yellow

**A/N:** This does take place _before_ Tony's set in the series, even though it's written _after_ – it's not a huge detail, but concerning the second of Thor's chapters, it does make a slight difference. Just FYI. Also, Darcy let me know in no uncertain terms that – for this universe – she is abused, Natasha will take her in thank-you-very-much, and Darcy will – in spite of the fact that this was meant to be an _Avengers_ issues-fic - be getting a chapter in the near future. So there.

**[Chapter] Title: Code Yellow**

**[Chapter] Rating:** T (16+)

**[Chapter] Summary:** Jane's been invited into the Tower – she and Darcy (because Jane does not move without her faithful assistant, ever) had been ecstatic. The team is so sweet, and Thor seems to really fit with these strange, wonderful people. Just… she wished she'd gotten a warning.

**[Chapter] Warnings:** Nightmares, implied flashback, insomnia, careful!Jane, implied abused!Darcy, language, unBeta'd

"Lady Jane! Lady Darcy!"

The enthusiastic and adoration-infused greeting could only have come from one person, and Jane and Darcy both accordingly braced themselves. The muscle-bound form of Thor loped through the elevator doors and scooped up Jane in a tight, warm embrace, with the added bonus of a heart-felt kiss. He approached Darcy more sedately, and embraced her more carefully, though his expression was just as joyous at her presence as Jane's, before settling back on his feet and grinning fit to light up a room. "It is a most auspicious occasion that you have finally moved into the Tower, at last! Anthony has kindly made use of his manservant-who-lives-in-the-ceiling, JARVIS, and has prepared a mighty feast for this thing. Come, and learn my shield-brethren as I have!"

Eagerly, he ushered them both passed the communal floor, and requested JARVIS take them to the Party Room in the Pent House Suite. The elevator moved, with a smooth, "Of course, Master Thor."

"'Master' Thor?" Darcy quipped, covering a minute flinch at the sudden voice with wit.

JARVIS answered evenly, "Of course, Miss Lewis. I have been programmed with the utmost in manners, in spite of the rather crude nature of my 'father'; for sir I retain vast skill-set in sarcasm. Unless otherwise directed, I utilize title and name when addressing or referring to a person. Sir is, again, one such exception. Master Thorhas given me blanket-permission to utilize whichever address I deem befitting the situation."

"Pssh!" Darcy snorted, relaxing when Jane gently bumped shoulders, "In that case, Jeeves, call me Darcy. 'Miss Lewis' is the Agent's nickname for me."

"Of course, Lady Darcy," JARVIS agreed, a note of amusement in his electronic voice. "In the same vein, may I request _you_ use _my_ name? 'Jeeves' is so very… droll. Not to mention that I can do far more than any _human_ butler."

Darcy grinned cheekily at the camera in the corner, "Gotcha. No insulting the man who can ensure all my showers go cold. And you don't have to be as formal as 'Lady' even, if you don't want to."

"I find proper address to be rather soothing. Still, I think you and I shall be getting along just fine, Lady Darcy. And you, Dr. Foster? Do you have a preference?"

"Ah, um, well—I… not really, I guess, JARVIS? It doesn't matter much," she stuttered, not having expected JARVIS to address her directly. "Jane works as well as anything."

"Very well, Lady Jane," JARVIS responded. With a grin in his voice, JARVIS teased, "We have arrived at the Pent House. Please leave all hands and feet inside the ride at all times; avoid sir near the bar if you wish to maintain any level of sobriety; do not provoke any of the SHIELD agents into contests of skill if you value life, limb, and dignity; and please – do make yourselves at home."

"Did Stark put you up to that, JARVIS?" a young man with honey-brown hair and pale eyes cackled as the trio arrived. He was perched impossibly on the top of the entertainment system, balancing on the slim piece of wood like he belonged there.

"Sir did not, Master Clint. I _am_ capable of my own sarcasm, as I know you are well aware," JARVIS insisted wryly. Clint beamed up at one of the cameras for a moment, cheesy and over-done.

Then, winningly, he grinned down at Jane and Darcy. "Hey! Name's Clint. I'm Agent Barton, also known as Hawkeye. I remember you two from New Mexico – never seen two more kick-ass women-who-aren't-Natasha. Nicely done. Kept your cool _and_ managed to yell at Coulson."

"Personally, Clint, I really don't think that these two managing to yell at me – for _legally requisitioning_ their things for SHIELD, as a matter of fact – is anything special to be noted. Misunderstandings like that happen all the time, without the proper clearance levels," a composed man in an immaculate suit, close-cropped dark hair, and bright eyes murmured, looking flatly up at Clint. He turned his gaze to the women, and nodded. "We have met before, but for courtesies' sake: Agent Phil Coulson, handler of the Avengers, Level Eight Clearance SHIELD official."

Jane nibbled on her hair for a moment, before she nodded to herself and stepped forward, "I got my things back, and my research intact. Even if I now have to work under mum-orders for the bowels of the agency that interrupted me in the first place, I can still _work,_ and I can see Thor. No hard feelings, Agent Coulson?"

A faint smiled pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head, moving forward and firmly grasping Jane's offered hand, "None, Dr. Foster, none at all. I admire your dedication to your work, by the way. I would have said so earlier, but it would have been inappropriate to say when I was in the process of appropriating your life's work."

Jane blushed and smiled, stepping back into Thor's waiting arms. Darcy took her place, her own gaze still firmly critical. Her arms crossed over the _top_ of her chest – showing displeasure without using her assets, though Phil read a well-hidden tension in spite of the confident move – and went still, waiting. Finally, she held out her own hand in a wordless palm-up demand.

Suddenly, he cracked a smile. His smile grew, flashing teeth and surprising everyone, and a small huff of disarming laughter escaped his mouth. Darcy's own lips pulled up, genuine even as it was cautious. Phil reached into his suit jacket, and withdrew a matte white StarkPod. He dropped it into her palm. She stared at him, trying to appear unmoved, though her shoulders softened the slightest fraction.

"It's the latest model, not even on the market yet – part of the perks of living with the designer. It has all your old songs, triple the memory, and comes with three-hundred dollars worth of spending money, credible to any and all purchases that can be made on it," Coulson informed her, once more immaculate. "There wasn't much I could do about your iPod – unlike Dr. Foster's things, it didn't hold any research, so was destroyed to prevent the footage from getting out. I hope this makes up for it."

Once more, her eyes moved between the peace-offering and the agent. Then she shifted the StarkPod into her back pocket, and her smile widened a fraction. She nodded, and offered a closed fist to Phil. His eyebrow sought his hairline, but he fist-bumped the brunette woman. He knew better: overtures of friendship on her part were rare. "Thanks for keeping tabs on my stuff, Agent-Man," she hummed. "You're maybe not so bad, for a boot-jacked, secret agent suit."

"He is good at keeping his promises, Miss Lewis," a redhead who'd sidled up from a corner hummed, hands on her hips. She looked Darcy up and down in the same way the brunette had looked over Phil a few moments before, but more intense – she didn't miss a thing. Her gaze flickered over Jane as well. "I am Agent Romanov, and the Black Widow."

Darcy's grin was brighter, even if her body language was still quietly defensive. Faced with a woman like the Black Widow, and she somehow she approached without a flinch, unintentionally impressing the agents. "Hi, I'm Darcy Lewis. I mean, you knew that, obviously, but… that is, you're cool. You're strong, and don't let anyone take advantage of you; I like that."

She reached forward and – pulling back only once, before solidifying her resolve – grabbed Natasha's hand, holding on carefully and looking up from under her eyelashes with nothing less than hero-worship. Under Natasha's shadow, she was still stiff, but not as much as when Phil's or Clint's attention had been on her. Natasha was no stranger to body language – reading it accurately was her _job_ – and she glanced at Phil and Clint for confirmation that this really was happening.

When both men discreetly nodded at her, expressions carefully blank, Natasha turned her attention to the shorter brunette again. "Thank you, девочка[1]. There are not many with the courage to speak candidly to my face."

Darcy smiled shyly, even as she fled back to the familiarity of Jane's side. A man with glasses and dark, mousy hair stepped forward with a cautious smile, and greeted the women, "My name is Bruce Banner – I work in the labs here, when I'm not… ah, putting the Other Guy – Hulk – into play. I assume you'll be working in a lab of your own, Dr. Foster, and working as her assistant, Miss Lewis? Since all the private labs are on one floor, we will probably be seeing a lot more of one another. I hope we become good friends."

Jane beamed at her fellow scientist, moving forward to shake his hand. He flinched as she drew close, unused to people taking to him so quickly, and she carefully backtracked in deference to his comfort, though she was still smiling. "I'm sure we will, Dr. Banner – and please, call me Jane."

Smiling widely, Darcy nodded, keeping to herself as well, "'Course we will, Doc! You sciency-types tend to get along like bread and butter, if you don't hack one anothers' theories apart from the get-go. You 'n' Jane'll manage fine. And there's nothing between us to start a fight, right? You can call me Darcy."

Though his shoulder's remained slightly hunched, nervous about bringing new people in the Other Guy's range, Bruce's smile grew at the warm welcome, and he nodded agreeably. Before he could warm up more to them, Tony Stark – the beaming, well-dressed, strutting figure could only be the self-proclaimed Iron Man – swept into the room. "JARVIS, honey, baby – the party can't start without me! You know that. Hello, ladies! Tony Stark, Iron Man, owner of this Tower, member of the Avengers, and official requestor of your permanent presence here, for our local Norse god."

He grinned saucily at the new guests in his Tower, still in paparazzi-mode, though he was dropping out of it even as he peeled his jacket off. When it revealed a worn Metallica t-shirt, Darcy crowed with thrilled laughter. Tony's face grew thoughtful. "I like this one. You did good, picking out your groupy-girl, Thor," he praised with a smirk.

Easily, Darcy returned it, with interest. "Watch it, playboy. I don't play keeps for just anyone."

"Of course not. JARVIS, everyone's here who's gonna be here: start the tunes!"

Much to Jane's surprise, and Darcy's eternal joy, the two newcomers blended in quite well – even if the former did so by sticking to the shadow of her other-worldly beau, and the latter by consuming nearly as much alcohol as Tony, with (amazingly) a slightly larger tolerance – with the odd-ball team known as the Avengers. The welcoming party lasted well into the night.

**-AIMS-**

Jane was roused from her sleep by a semi-familiar British voice, murmuring softly in the darkness of her room.

"—up, please. Lady Jane, _please_ wake up. It is inadvisable for a trained _Avenger_ to be in Master Thor's presence during the unpredictability of a Code Yellow; _you_ should _not_ be in this position. My sensors indicate you are waking, Lady Jane, please – it would be best to remove yourself to the other side of the room until Master Thor can be roused."

She might have only just become one of the Tower's inhabitants, but something made even the depths of her lizard brain want to obey JARVIS' orders. Before she quite knew what was happening, she was rolling so quickly out of the bed that she and Thor shared that she toppled onto the floor with a painful _thump._

A breathless squeak was pushed out of her lungs, in part by the impact, but also because of the sudden and sleep-heavy way that one of Thor's open hands smacked down on the side of the bed where she'd just lain. The covers sparkled faintly in the dark as large amounts of static electricity transferred between his hand and the cloth. She crab-scuttled backwards until she hit the far wall, and sat there staring with wide eyes.

"… JARVIS?"

"It is a Code Yellow, Lady Jane. All of the Avengers have them – the 'super-equivalent of a panic attack', as sir once coined it. You are lucky: Master Thor's Code Yellow's are only nightmares; they come very rarely; and they are quick to end. None of the others ever have to be called to subdue him, as they might be for one of the other Codes. According to the data on-hand, Master Thor should be waking up any minute; the flailing period is the shortest part of a Code Yellow, and usually indicates the nearing end of the episode. You are safe as long as you stay still until he realizes who you are."

"Y-yeah," Jane stuttered, still unable to tear her eyes away from the fitfully-tossing, subtly-sparking form on the bed.

"Lady Jane," and JARVIS's voice was full of gentle compassion and awareness, modulated so as not to awaken the distressed Asgardian, and risk scaring him worse before he got his wits about him. "Were the pattern to deviate, escalate, or otherwise endanger your person, I would immediately alert the rest of the Tower. And, considering what some of them are capable of, their reaction-times are fast, indeed. You have merely to wait until Master Thor regains consciousness. You are safe here."

It didn't seem like it to Jane, however much JARVIS tried to soothe her – she knew how much force it took to bruise skin and break bone, and knew that Thor had that much and more potential in him, completely aside from the electrical component of his abilities. She'd seen both at work, in a ghost-town in New Mexico. It was disconcerting to wonder if – in his sleep, and the throes of a violent nightmare – Thor would unconsciously recognize her as his bedmate, and modulate his strength and powers accordingly, or not. She wasn't brazen enough to want to find out; she was an _astrophysicist_, for crying out loud! Not a devil-may-care risk taker!

Even as she sighed and slumped against the far wall, thinking (panicking) over it all, Thor suddenly vaulted up in bed. The covers pooled around his waist, and his blue eyes flew wide open as he cried out, "No, _brother!"_

Jane shivered as thunder responded to her boyfriend, a counterpoint to the sudden silence of the room. She _knew_ her choice of lovers was an alien, with powers she couldn't really comprehend. But that didn't mean – after nearly two years apart, since the Bridge broke – that she was _used_ _to_ his subconscious displays of power, yet. Unlike too many of the humans who seemed to gravitate toward the Avengers, she had a sense of self-preservation, and it was healthy and strong.

Thor blinked and frowned. Almost before the haze of lingering visions lifted from his expressive eyes, his focus was snapping around. Blue eyes, backlit eerily by the moon through the far bay window, locked on her own, and Thor gasped, plaintively, brokenly, with a tiny note of horror, "Jane…!"

When he didn't move, Jane belatedly realized he'd read the wariness in her posture, and was waiting for her to come to him – even when _he_ was the one who needed _her_ comfort. The knowledge pulled a tiny, besotted smile to her face, and she pulled herself to her feet. She was a short woman, but in a few quick strides, she was back at the bed, and climbed in like it meant nothing. It _was_ nothing, to ignore the faint bite of left-over static on her knees, for his sake. And his eyes – even sleepy and slightly unfocused – said it all: he'd known she was there. Her real-life Prince would never hurt her. She wasn't silly to be cautious – but, at least here, with him, the caution proved to be unneeded.

"I'm here, Thor. You just surprised me, that's all. I'm here."

His face crumpled, and he leaned forward – slowly, so slowly, still wary of the look that had been in her eyes – to rest his forehead against her shoulder, and grip her waist with his huge hands. The softest tremble filled his limbs, making his fingers twitch on her hips, and his breath hitched. When she reached out and wrapped her arms around his shoulder, drawing him closer, he let loose a full-body shudder, and huddled as close as humanly possible while still treating her like fine china.

"I'm here, babe. It was just a nightmare. It's over now." Jane hummed. She was a practical sort – she wouldn't tell him it was going to be okay, because she didn't know. She didn't like making promises like that, especially after nightmares. The people those kinds of promises were made to were hurting and desperate, and it was – in her opinion – just cruel to tell them lies like that. Especially if it was something that would _never_ get better. (Though, for Thor's sake, she hoped that his nightmares were a thing that wouldn't haunt him forever. That would be unspeakably cruel.)

"Oh, Jane. Beloved." Thor gasped, clinging to her. She was alive, and – what's more – she had not betrayed him so painfully as the once-sweet Loki had. The All-Father and Frigga were his parents, and they loved him, but when it came to family, Thor was always conflicted. Jane wasn't part of that mess; she was here, she was steady, and she was kind.

They spent the rest of the night like that. Eventually, Jane nodded off, and when she woke up, it was to find that she was still cradled delicately in his arms, with the midmorning sun streaming in their window. In spite of his lack of sleep, he'd remained unmoved, for her comfort, all morning long. He smiled down at her, and if it was a little cautious, it was mostly adoring and grateful. He bent down and kissed her forehead, helped her untangle from the sheets, and then get ready for a new day. He would be okay.

Jane was more real than a nightmare. Jane was more present that Thor's twisted brother. Jane loved him as much as Thor loved her, and that was what mattered. They would make it work – with and around the nightmare-filled nights.

**-AIMS-**

[1] девочка – little girl


	4. Thor: Thunder Alert

**Chapter Title: Thunder Alert**

**Chapter Rating:** T (16+)

**Chapter Summary:** Thor hadn't meant to do that. Lady Jane was doing important work, work she loved – he never wanted to distract her from her life's joy.

**Chapter Warnings:** PTSD, flashback, non-responsiveness, implied abused!Darcy, implied Phil/Clint, language, unBeta'd

Jane and Darcy had been living in the Tower for only a couple of weeks when Jane was called away.

As much work as she was able to do in the labs that Tony had provided for her – and good _God,_ was she able to do a lot; that man knew how to stock his labs! – she was still technically employed by SHIELD. So when they called and said they needed her to head up a briefing for the senior agents and scientists, based on her findings, she really couldn't say no.

It wasn't like she hadn't left the Tower to attend near-by conferences since she'd arrived… but she was always back by nightfall. Director Fury had indicated this was a procedural-building meeting, based on what they would learn about alien contact, and would last anywhere from three days to a week, depending on how quickly they could put their heads together and plan out for any and all contingencies that might occur in the future. (A small part of Jane noted that, yes, SHIELD _did _have paperwork for everything, apparently – and was bemused to further realize that it was what amounted to a council meeting that came up with all that self-same paperwork. For some reason, she'd just assumed that it was agents like Phil – who loved the stability of paperwork and procedures – that just sat around in their spare time and came up with things, as needed.)

See, for Thor, understanding the human concept of instant communication via cell phone had been amazing, and he texted and called her three and four and five times a day, when he wasn't right at her side. But Thor didn't just understand in a nebulous way that this was the culmination of her life's work, he _read her papers_ to understand the logistics as well as he could – and so when she went to various conferences, he left her phone alone unless he was texting to say in one go that the Avengers were Assembling, he loved her, and he'd see her whenever either of them got home. To put that novelty aside for her… Jane loved her boyfriend.

But this was the first time in a couple months – since she moved in – that they would be going longer than 24 hours without physical and visual contact. She was sort of worried that he would ring her in the middle of the conference, and with her phone off, she wouldn't know.

As she stepped off the helicopter that had picked her up atop the Tower, and was led through the dizzying halls of the Helicarrier, Jane shook her head. Her boyfriend was a big boy – he'd lived most of his life without her. And he was smart, though the difficulties presented by the differences in their cultures often disguised that. Even if all that failed, he was surrounded by the world's saving grace of superheroes; they'd protect him.

Jane breathed in, and Dr. Foster breathed out, as she calmly walked into a university-sized lecture room in front of a dozen peers and a couple dozen senior agents. Thor could take care of himself, and she needed to stop worrying long enough to do her job.

**-AIMS-**

Later, no one would be sure what set it off. It had never happened before, and so they hadn't known what kind of signs to look for.

It started with the faint drizzle that had Darcy squealing, and then running out with Clint to go jump in the puddles. She and the Specialist came into the communal floor's kitchen – where most of the Avengers had congregated – soaking wet, and bright red with laughter. Natasha had clucked disapprovingly, and dragged Darcy off to the bowels of Natasha's booby-trapped floor to dry off and change – all the way down the hall, the team listened as Darcy babbled energetically at the Black Widow. Instead of being stabbed, or otherwise mutilated, for annoying Natasha, as would have happened to almost anyone else who tried something at Darcy's level of excitement, the older woman smiled faintly and let her friend babble. Somehow in the passing months, she'd gotten Darcy to relax and open up, and if it meant that Darcy got through Natasha's shields, too, none of them were going to complain any time soon.

Without looking up from where his nose was buried in a battered and yellowing copy of _The Hobbit,_ Phil reached out and snagged the tails of Clint's shirt as he clambered up onto the countertop, intent on the vent above. His movement arrested, Clint looked down, saw Phil's gentle but immoveable grip, and grew puppy-dog eyes. They were summarily ignored as Phil – still apparently engrossed in his literature – tugged lightly at Clint's clothes until the sniper sighed and climbed down. Phil's grip shifted to Clint's hand, and he, too, was led down the hall – presumably toward the floor they both shared.

Tony had been on a lab-binge for 72 hours, and watching Phil and Natasha calmly and responsibly handle the two water-logged idiots, Steve decided enough was enough. He stuck around long enough to see Clint and Phil, and Natasha and Darcy, get on the elevator – and it was still strange to see Natasha so docile, and Darcy so dynamic – and then he pushed away from the table. His exit from the kitchen meant that it was once more empty.

Crossing down the hallway a couple of floors down, he passed by Jane's empty lab, Bruce busy in his own – significantly more showered and cared for than Tony would be, after his binge session – and finally he approached the glass wall of Tony's lab.

Thor loved Midgard, and often spent his day out in the world – flying, or seeing the city, or using the subway, or watching the children playing in Central Park, or anything else. So, as Steve forcefully dragged Tony out of his lab – after giving JARVIS the temporary shut-down codes Tony had given him, when he told Tony they had to come to a compromise between Tony's odd hours and the new team bonding regiment that Phil had implemented – Steve felt comfortable in knowing that he knew his whole team was safe, and it was a normal, if rainy, day.

When dinner came and went with still no sign of Thor, Steve felt a niggling of concern begin. But sometimes the Asgardian got so wrapped up in the 'strangeness' of Midgard that he lost track of time, and came home late, but flushed with success and discovery, so Steve didn't call for an intervention yet.

By lunch the next day, Steve was really wishing that he'd followed up on that mild concern. No one had seen Thor in almost 30 hours, and the storm had not yet let up. It had actually gotten worse, and had been centered – based on the time between lightning strike and thunder crashing – directly overhead for some hours.

Everyone gathered in the communal living room, brainstorming a plan of 'attack' to find Thor. It was Tony, with a blank stare around at all the idiots he'd invited into his Tower, that acted reasonably. He sighed, and asked, "JARVIS? Whereabouts on the tracking chips in Thor's phone and watch?"

"Both, sir," JARVIS announced, his voice just as skeptic of the team as Tony's expression displayed, "are on Master Thor's floor – along with Master Thor, himself. He has been in his room during the entirety of the time-frame which is the current point of discussion."

"You are all surrounded by _state-of-the-art_ technology – stuff _I_ designed! Next time we are looking for one of our team, let's use our heads instead of panicking, shall we?" Tony chastised. The team shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed at their overreaction.

"Sir," JARVIS interrupted hesitantly. The AI was hardly ever hesitant – amused, thoughtful, sarcastic, and annoyed, yes, but not unsure. That just wasn't part of his overall function, especially with ready access to _years_ of human observation, an impeccable predictive routine, and a computer thought-process that allowed him to think much faster than his human charges. It got Tony's attention immediately.

"What's up, J?" he demanded, gaze staring sharply at nothing, as his ears tuned urgently into JARVIS's response.

"Sir, for the last day and a half, Master Thor has not moved or made a request of any kind. Upon locating his person and relaying the coordinates to the team, I took the initiative to inform Master Thor of the panic. It was my hope that he would come down and reassure you all of his well-being. Instead, he did not react at all to my voice."

Tony's eyebrows rose, and as he started steadily toward the elevator, he barked, "Sit-rep, JARVIS!"

"Master Thor's vitals – while within the parameters of the bodily functions of one who has neither moved nor eaten in over 36 hours – are still worryingly low. Combined with his lack of response, and extrapolated data on biological interactions as seen within the Tower…" JARVIS trailed off uncertainly.

"Spit it out, J," Tony prompted.

"Sir, I believe that we are witnessing what… _could_ be a—Well, a Thunder Alert, sir. In comparison to the various reactions and states of mind that each of the inhabitants of this Tower are likely to adopt when faced with their own Alert, and the various states of being which Master Thor has already been witnessed in over the past few months in residence, the conclusion that this is Master Thor's Alert is an 83 percent possibility."

Bruce's eyebrows rose, and he paused. When the rest of the team looked at him, he frowned and grabbed at Darcy's sleeve carefully, stopping her, too. "The Other Guy isn't really the best option for fighting off our panic attacks, you know? And I doubt Thor would recognize me as anything but someone who can become the Hulk if he's panicking. I really don't think it's a good idea for me to go up there, and – as a human with no combat experience, no special powers, _and_ one of Thor's first friends, who risks getting hurt if he doesn't recognize her – I don't think Darcy should go, either."

He winced apologetically at the brunette, and shrugged at Darcy, "If Thor doesn't recognize you, do you really think he'll control his strength if he attacks you? And do you really think that if he does – if he hurts you just a little, or a whole hell of a lot – won't he be absolutely _crushed_ that he _did_ hurt you? That he betrayed your trust like that?"

Her face – which had been slightly alarmed by the man-handling – grew thoughtful, and she chewed on her lip. Her answer, when it came, was soft. "Yeah. You're right, Bruce. Thanks."

Natasha took one look at her stiff shoulders, and pulled away from the team to wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. Her free hand came up and began gently petting Darcy's hair, and she looked over the head of curls with a closed expression. "I will stay here with Bruce and Darcy." Watching the lately-familiar easy way that Darcy went loose in Natasha's space, nobody argued. In the end, Tony, Steve, Clint, and Phil were the only ones to get in the elevator.

"Do you have any idea what might have set him off, JARVIS?" Steve demanded, displaying his focused ability to lead a team of misfits in the collected, authoritative tone. His fist opened and closed absently at his side, subconsciously seeking his shield.

"I am afraid I do not, Captain," JARVIS sighed, a wince somehow audible in his synthetic voice. "The only thing that has been different lately is Lady Jane's recent conference at SHIELD, but Master Thor was well aware of what was going to happen. He is a reasonable individual; I cannot fathom how her temporary absence would send him spiraling like this. However, it is the only large enough deviation to be candidate for a cause."

"It could be a flashback without cause," Clint offered quietly, avoiding eye contact. He leaned just a little into Phil's supportive arm around his waist before clarifying bitterly, "Sometimes the memories just… catch me off guard. Most of the time, it doesn't amount to much – without something to trigger them, it's pretty easy to differentiate between reality and memory – but every once in a while. Well. You've all been there, when shit hits the fan, and I go Code Purple without warning."

It went contemplatively quiet in the elevator for the few seconds that were left in the ride. When the doors slid open on Thor's floor – just beneath the Pent House Suite on top of the Tower – Phil instructed, "Let's do our best to bring him down gently, shall we? No reason to test the integrity of the building with _Mjölnir_."

Everyone nodded as they cautiously made their way into Thor's bedroom, unsure what they would find.

What they found was a thunder god staring blankly at the window as a torrent of water poured down it. He didn't react to the lightning, or the thunder. He didn't blink when his door was opened. He didn't move a muscle when Steve cautiously called out his name. Thor was – for all intents and purposes – catatonic.

**-AIMS-**

Thor was a born ruler – and a chosen leader of a group of valiant warriors besides – so he understood what it was to have to place duty, on occasion, before family. He knew what it meant to want to spend time with his parents, only to be postponed because they had an important issue of leadership they had to deal with for the good of the people they ruled.

So he understood, in a roundabout way, when Jane was called by Director Fury. He knew it was part of her duties, that she was not abandoning him, and that she would return after doing what it was she did best. And he knew that, when politics or evil forces weren't involved, Jane loved her job and the sciences she'd dedicated her life to – just as he loved his people, and cherished the presence and companionship of _Mjölnir._

_For the first few hours of the morning after Jane's departure, Thor was fine. He wasn't exactly happy to waken alone, and stewed like a hotheaded adolescent in his bed for some time, but he was functional. Eventually, he got up, showered, got dressed…_

_It was when he went to rise after lacing his boots up that he was struck by the memories. It was a crow that had winged it's way up to the top of the Tower, and was fluttering before Thor's window. On its own, it would have been innocuous, but Thor's thoughts had been flickering. Caught between his two closest loves – his Jane, and his brother – and memories of the Battle of New York; of Loki's betrayal on Asgard, then on Midgard; of the Chitauri, and the screams of the injured, the dying, the sick, and the grieving of humans mid-battle; of the near-loss on Jötunheimr; of his ultimate failure as son and brother and warrior and upcoming king; of his failure to keep his promise to Jane on his own; leaving it up to fate – an ill horror, should Idunn refuse Jane one of the Golden Apples – whether his chosen Lady would die in a few short human decades, or live with him forever as his Queen; and his failure to bring Asgard a Queen who would be of their ilk, should she be ____allowed__ that immortality, anyway._

_The heavy weight of all his morose thoughts – more and more depressing the longer he ruminated – all against the backdrop of the newly-rebuilt New York with the crow, with a pale, stripped twig in it's talon that looked like a dull gold, was too much, too reminiscent of the things which hurt most…_

_And Thor grew still, his brother a haunt in his mind, even as the unaware bird fluttered off._

___… Loki, with eyes of emerald, hard and angry, just before the flight to __Jötunheimr____…_

___… Thor being dragged down to the training grounds by a furious sibling, challenged to prove his battle skills against Loki's magical prowess…_

___… Loki, full of (false) sympathy, as Thor stewed helplessly in a Midgardian SHIELD cell…_

___… a particular summer's eve, catching Loki with his first lover in the fields, and being sworn to frantic secrecy, adolescent embarrassment coloring Loki's normally-pale face…_

_… watching with a plummeting gut, as a flash of magical steel, awash in blood, slipped free of the Son of Coul's dark jacket, like a fin through the water…_

___… Thor and Loki, young boys tussling happily in the court yard, not yet even novices in their chosen crafts…_

_… a hand, clutching his throat viciously, another wielding a knife, plunged heartlessly into his side…_

_…wrapped tightly in a terror-hold by his younger brother, as the sky opened up around them, separated from their father during a recreational hunt…_

_… Loki, forever using and testing and sharpening his silver liar's tongue on Thor, without regard for how Thor will fair in the end…_

_… holding the tiny bundle of his new baby brother under their mother's guidance, in awe of the wide, trusting gaze…_

_… Loki, with eyes of blue ice, heartless and detached, during their last clash, atop the Tower…_

**-AIMS-**

For hours, the group did what they could to get through to Thor, getting progressively more and more creative.

Phil tried by calling his name in different tones of authority, panic, and irritation – hoping the warrior would respond to a figure of authority. Steve knelt in front of Thor and tried to bring him around physically – tapping his cheek, slapping his shoulder, rubbing Thor's chilled hands between his own, and pinching skin. Clint tossed tiny projectiles at his head, caught items in his hair, and eventually tried head-slapping the god. Tony rigged a bucket to pour water over his head.

Occasionally, Thor twitched or frowned, grunted, shifted, and at one point out-and-out simply stood up and walked away. But as much as they got sporadic reactions, he was like a puppet – the lights were on, but no one was home.

No matter what they did, they didn't get through to the blonde man. JARVIS sent reports downstairs, so Darcy and their other teammates didn't worry worse, but it didn't change the reality. Eventually, Bruce sent up, via JARVIS, a hesitant suggestion.

"Uhm… I—Betty was the only one who could… get me back, before I met you. Maybe it's the same. Maybe we need Jane."

While as a businessman, Tony understood the importance of meetings, he also understood as an Avenger, the importance of rescuing a friend from their darknesses. With barley a thought on the matter, he consulted JARVIS, and together they hacked into the Helicarrier and emergency-contacted Jane. Within two minutes, JARVIS's phone was going off.

"Tony?" Jane was a little breathless, concern flooding her tone over the Tower's speakers. "What is it? You all know what I'm here for – this is an emergency, Agent Hill said. What's wrong with Thor?!"

Already he was tapping away on his phone; when Thor barely blinked at Jane using his name, Tony knew bigger measures needed to be taken. Distractedly, he muttered, "Hang on, Jane, gotta… set this up. Gimme just… one… second…! Ha, there! JARVIS, bring her up on the wall projector. Jane, look at the security camera in the ceiling corner to your upper left so we can see you."

On the wall, the group saw a flustered Jane Foster, eyes wide and concerned, wisps of hair askew. "I—What? What's going on, Tony?"

"Thor's gone catatonic – we think it's a Thunder Alert. There's a first time for everything, I suppose."

Jane's face paled. "He what?! What do you need me for, what can I do? How do I help? Is he okay?"

"Be at ease, Lady Jane, please," JARVIS interrupted. "Your panic may make the situation worse. Please calm down. Master Thor has been unresponsive for some time. We made multiple attempts to garner his attention, to little success – he is subconsciously aware of stimuli, but does not recognize our presence or our attempts. If he recognizes only your distress, it could degrade the situation indefinitely. It is our belief that he is trapped in a memory of some sort. Master Bruce suggested that we contact yourself, as the one among us who is closest to Master Thor, in the hopes that you could reach him, as a Miss Betty Ross once did for Master Bruce."

"We can see you on a projection on the wall, like a Skype call," Phil informed her calmly, succinctly. "Try and get his attention, if you would – he was always very receptive to the modes of communication where he could both hear and see you."

On the screen, while Jane's concern didn't leave her face, her stance shifted purposefully. She gained the air of someone who was more comfortable, if only because they finally had a job to do that was more than 'sit and wait for results'. She took a couple of steps closer to the camera, and JARVIS obligingly took control of the view, zooming in.

"Thor, honey, it's Jane. This is a special one-way call: you can see me, but I can't see you. You know I'm okay, right? I'm standing right here, and JARVIS is showing you where I am, and what I'm doing, and what I look like right now. But I can't see you. And if you don't talk to me, I can't hear you, either. The guys tell me you're not doing so great, babe, and I understand – I have nightmares about New Mexico sometimes, and it's hard to deal with – but if I can't see you, I need to hear you. I need to know you're okay, or I'm going to panic. Can you say something for me, Thor? Let me know you're there, and that you hear me?"

Thor blinked, long and slow and heavy, and slowly turned his face toward the wall. The faintest glimmer of concern and confusion lingered on his face, though his eyes were still gazed and mostly unfocused. It was more than any of them had gotten out of him in hours.

"Keep going, Jane – he's responding," Clint encouraged softly.

"Thor, babe, I'm here. I'll always be here. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, as many times as you need me to. But you can't just leave me hanging. I need to know what's going through that big blonde head of yours in order to help you through it. The guys are really worried about you – you know they have to be, because they interrupted my conference for it, when I know for a fact that Director Fury told them not to. I'm worried about you, too. Maybe it's not something I directly can help you with, what you're going through, but I can help you find a way, or find a person, or find _something _to help – you've just got to let me know you're there. Just let me know you hear me, that you're listening. Can you do that for me, honey?"

Thor's blue eyes were still too fuzzy, his expression still too lost, but he frowned, and croaked throatily, "… Jane?"

"Oh, Thor, I'm here!" And, with a faint note of relief in her still helplessly-worried voice, Jane babbled on.

Quietly, Tony waved the others out of the room, reassured that – even if Thor wasn't _functional_ right now – Jane had it far better in hand then they ever had. Once out in the hall, he murmured softly, "J, keep an eye on 'em?"

"Of course, sir. I will do my utmost." JARVIS soothed, not as much tension in his electronic accent as before.

"And get me – _us_ – if anything goes wrong, if he needs anything, if—"

"If," JARVIS interrupted smoothly, used to Tony's speech patterns, "anything changes, sir. If anything requires your assistance, you will all be informed immediately."

Tension seeped out of the various shoulders, necks, and backs in the suite, as the group moved toward the elevator. Downstairs, they met with an anxious Bruce, Darcy, and Natasha, easing worries. Upstairs, Jane talked Thor down from his strange and terrifying Alert. And throughout the Tower, JARVIS kept a silent, constant vigil.

He let Tony know later that night when Jane hung up, and when – immediately after – Thor climbed the stairs to the rooftop before flying off. He let Tony know that he man had accidentally left his watch and phone on the bedside table, so JARVIS could not track his whereabouts. He let Tony know how the unnaturally fierce storm, which had been pounding above their heads for almost two days now, had suddenly, and almost magically, dispersed.

And, hours later, he let a lab-binged Tony – who was, once again, being reclaimed for humanity by a weary Steve – that Jane had called moments ago, to inform the Avengers that a thoroughly distressed Thor had arrived on the Helicarrier hours ago, and it was only just then that he'd gotten to sleep so she could call. She said he seemed to be doing better, all things concerned.

The first Thunder Alert was over, truly over, and the Tower finally, completely relaxed, knowing its occupants were all safe and sane – if not still emotional wrecks, but that was the way of superhero life – once more.


	5. Phil: Code Grey

**A/N:** Takes place before the events in either Tony'sor Thor's sections. Like Thor's_,_ this can be read without knowledge of the other two, though understanding of the tone of the series is helpful. Also, all poetry and literary excerpts found in this two-shot are owned by their respective authors, and not by me – I'm only using them as props in my fic.

**[Chapter] Title: Code Grey**

**[Chapter] Rating:** T (14+)

**[Chapter] Summary:** He'd been home free for 67 hours. That was how long it took for things to sink in.

**[Chapter] Warnings:** Panic attack, non-linear narrative, hurt-comfort, poetry in the narrative, bibliophile!Phil, Phil/Clint, unBeta'd

It happened on his couch, while he was trying to distract himself with meaningless television – because Tony was an extravagant giver, so everyone had their own _floor_ instead of just their own room. And it came _with_ furniture; that they were his favorite kinds were probably at the intervention of the sweet Ms. Potts. And of course, the whole _Tower_ was supplied with a quality television package.

Phil had finally got some hours to himself, after nearly two and a half days of being coddled by his surprised, relieved, desperate team. He'd been looking forward to just relaxing mindlessly on the couch in his living room, maybe read some from the various collection on his bookshelf, or watch a movie. Just letting go.

But with how he'd been surrounded by 'normal' agents of SHIELD – who didn't know him (personally) from Adam – for the last couple of months, to escaping from an agency that specialized in subterfuge, and then going to being nearly smothered by people who actually knew and cared for him in the last couple of days… The promise of peace and quiet, of feeling like he could close his eyes and relax, without being watched every second, crashed over him without warning.

His breath seized in his chest, and he blanked out, heedless of a concerned voice overhead.

**-AIMS-**

At the end of the day, Phil was only human. He strove to show those he was in charge of that he had a calm that could not be rattled, but it was mostly for their benefit. Depriving himself of the human act of reaction was, sometimes, more than he could handle. Breaking down after a particularly bad op (alone, alone, preserve his image) was not uncommon.

And while the members of the Tower didn't begrudge him his panic attack, he could still see the moment when they all – except for his two specialists, because he was their years-long, one-time handler, and they _knew_ him in ways no one else did – realized that he wasn't infallible. Wiping the sweat off his face, a faint tremor still in his hands, he was ushered down to the communal floor.

Phil really hoped this wouldn't undermine his authority with them. That was the only reason that the Director had let him get away with running off like he had. Without that up his sleeve…

He was tugged out of those panic-inducing thoughts by a worried, observant Clint gently pulling on his shirt. He was more grateful for the archer than anyone would ever know, perhaps save Clint himself.

**-AIMS-**

"Coulson. Phil, look at me," a familiar voice begged.

He couldn't focus.

"Master Clint, is there any way I may be of service?"

Everything was twisted and unreal; the frenetic energy of his body paramount to everything else.

"No, JARVIS," the same voice sighed. "I've got this. I know how to talk him down. Same way he does me. I'm thinking small pieces, less to focus on while panicking."

** -AIMS-**

Curled up on another couch, this time surrounded by various bodies and warmed by human presence, Phil finally settled back down.

For all that they'd never come together like this – outside of battle – the entire thing held a sense of familiarity and companionship. It was comforting. Watching through suddenly-sleepy eyes as Thor and Tony good-naturedly fought over what the team would watch on the 'tiny theatre-box', curled securely into Clint's side, Phil knew that this – this feeling of family, that he'd been missing since his timid mother died when he was nineteen, since _always_ where it concerned his dead-beat father – _had_ to continue.

And he was the "agent's Agent", as Tony put it; he would make it so.

**-AIMS-**

"You recited enough things on long ops for me, when I can't sit still any more. I think you'd be surprised how many I remember.

Time is  
too slow for those who wait,  
too fast for those who fear,  
too long for those who grieve,  
too short for those who rejoice;  
but for those who love,  
Time is eternity!

— That one was Henry Van Dyke. Time hasn't been kind to you, to us. But I love you, Phil. Whatever you did or didn't do doesn't matter to me, same as you said to me. I'd take away the past if I could."

Phil struggled to hear through the mush of his mind. Vaguely, he recognized, if not the words, then the cadence and tone. He wished he knew who was speaking.

**-AIMS-**

When the movie ended, the bowls of popcorn were all empty, and the team was immersed in a rare feeling of ease and contentment, Phil slowly sat up. His movement drew curious, lazy eyes, and he chose his words carefully.

"I liked this," he announced, and was pleased with how shoulders eased and faces lit up. "And for once, you all got together and did something without metaphorically going for one another's throats."

He wasn't doing a thing to hide his intentions or the direction of his demands behind clever words. If he'd wanted to underhandedly manipulate them, he could have – but they didn't deserve that. Not if they were willing to work according to his wishes… and his 'death' had shown him they were. His team was more alert now, ready for his ultimatum, and ready to take it on, if it seemed needed. He was so proud of them. They wouldn't obey him _just because_, but neither would they fight him on this if it was reasonable. They would try to be the team he knew they had the potential to be.

"You are a team, and as much as records show you got together and acted like one when—when the Chitauri finally arrived," Phil winced as he reworded his praise, the point still too raw for them all to look at too closely just yet, "… When there is no threat, you all seem to forget what the word 'team' implies. This – this right here – _this_ was good. _This _was being a team, and living together, and getting along. So this is what I propose, as the handler who knows best."

Clint, as predicted, snorted at the tone and reference, easing the group of tense superheroes. Steve straightened up, making a show of listening without actually meaning to _make a show_ of it. Tony in turn made a show of _not_ listening, as he messed around on his tablet, even when Phil knew him well enough to know he was actually as all-ears as Tony Stark can be. Natasha continued to file her nails on a random knife, her eyes glued to Phil in spite of the sharp instrument. Bruce pushed his glasses further up his nose, and looked calmly at Phil. Thor eagerly sat up, ready and waiting for a new 'quest'. Phil dropped the bomb.

"I want this to be a weekly thing. Movie night. Mandatory bonding for the team. You need it, you need each other, and it's a nice way to spend at least two hours together in one room, without too much animosity, tension, cultural barriers, or bloodshed. I'll leave it up to you to agree on a day of the week, and a way to pick out movies and snacks, but it _will_ happen."

Phil was pleased with the varying levels of surprise he'd managed to place on each and every face.

**-AIMS-**

He had no concept of time. The male who was speaking had, at some point, wrapped himself around Phil, speaking softly in his ear. The effect was something that tugged at his memory – something about hearing it _right there –_ and he strove to be more present.

"How about this, part of a Byron piece. It's even ironically suited to me.

Think'st thou that I could bear to part  
From thee, and learn to halve my heart?  
Where were thy friend—and who my guide?  
Years have not seen, time shall not see  
The hour that tears my soul from thee.  
Ev'n Azrael, from his deadly quiver  
When flies that shaft, and fly it must,  
That parts all else, shall doom for ever  
Our hearts to undivided dust!

"It's okay. You're here, and safe. Just as safe as the Avengers – who came together under _your_ name, you know – can make you. Come back? It's okay…" the voice muttered, and Phil could tell that – though they were silent – there were others in the room as well.

**-AIMS-**

Amazingly, the team had stuck around in the living room for another half an hour, in spite of their usual allergy to spending time with one another, and the fact that the movie was over. Phil wasn't going to delude himself and pretend that he and his recent panic attack had nothing to do with it, but that didn't mean it wasn't something that brought warmth to his chest.

When Clint got up – the last, besides Phil, himself – Phil stiffened. Clint's green-hazel eyes rolled, and he snapped out a hand to haul Phil to his feet. Without letting go, he pulled Phil after him into the elevator.

"Your floor or mine?"

"W-what?"

Clint's expression softened, and he smiled gently. "You had a panic attack, Phil. It was short, but it was _real._ I'm not leaving you alone unless you outright _tell me_ that's what you want."

**-AIMS-**

"You'll be familiar with the concept in this one," Clint hummed in his ear.

With every word that the archer spoke, Phil grew more and more aware.

"It's by Lowell, from Present Crisis,

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,  
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;  
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,  
Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right;  
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

"Because you're always trying to do what's right, even if it's a difficult decision." Clint's hand was steadily rubbing circles into Phil's back.

Convulsively, Phil's hands tightened where they'd gripped Clint's forearms, and he blinked the darkness from his eyes, surprised (and yet not) to find the rest of the Avengers ringed around them in a loose, worried semicircle. Clint leaned away from Phil, just enough to catch the agent's eye over his shoulder, and prompted carefully, "Phil? You with us?"

"… Clint?" His voice was rough and whispery, his throat protesting the tightness that panic had induced.

A small smile bloomed on the archer's face, and he nodded. "Yeah, man. That was some panic attack, huh? Wanna tell me what it was for?"

"How long?"

"Don't worry, Agent Coulson," Steve spoke up, shy and cautious, "JARVIS only just called us; it was a quick one. We didn't see much at all – Barton was closest. He was the one who got here first."

"Phil?" Clint prompted again.

Phil hid his face in Clint's shoulder. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be happening, but… Well, losing control wasn't _normal_. He needed the contact, and Clint didn't seem to mind.

"I'm… here," Phil allowed, muffled. He was more grateful than ever that his specialist could read him so well, because he didn't have to clarify. Clint nodded, pulling him gently to his feet and slowly ushering him, and the team, onto the communal floor, maybe for a movie.

"Yeah – we've got you, and you're not going anywhere you don't want to. You're here."

**-AIMS-**

They'd chosen to use Clint's floor, because it was just above Natasha's, while Phil's had been a last-minute add-on, and so was at the bottom of the Avengers-stack in the Tower line-up: too far away.

Curled up in Clint's huge king-size bed (because apparently, if Stark could pay for it, Clint wanted to live in the luxury of a decent bed all to himself, something he had been long-denied), tucked beneath the covers, and being spooned (for once) by Clint, Phil felt exhaustion falling on him. He sighed, and twined his fingers with the calloused hand that lay across his stomach. Clint squeezed gently.

"You okay?"

"Mm," Phil hummed hesitantly, too relaxed to look for words in spite of his minor discomfort.

"I'm not leaving," Clint repeated.

Phil was glad that the younger man didn't seem like he would tire of saying it any time soon. Though he wasn't surprised: with their line of work, and his own past, Clint was no stranger to the needs of someone thoroughly shaken by reminders of the past. Clint sighed gustily, and with more than a little affection in his voice (and a touch of understanding), he offered, "Want me to talk until you fall asleep?"

"Yes, please," Phil whispered, flushing.

"Alright. Let's stick with poetry, since it's rhythmic. We'll start with Browning, I think.

Day!  
Faster and more fast,  
O'er night's brim, day boils at last;  
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim  
Where spurting and suppress'd it lay—  
For not a froth-flake touched the rim  
Of yonder gap in the solid grey  
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;  
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,  
Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,  
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast  
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

"Do you remember?" Clint whispered into the hairs at Phil's nape, "That was the first poem you ever read to me? After I woke up in Medical for the first time and wouldn't sit still, when your usual books took too much of my concentration to bother with?"

Phil was already asleep.

(His things would migrate pretty quickly to mingle with Clint's over the next few weeks. Both would be glad that none of the team ever made a big deal out of it.)


	6. Phil: Agent Alert

**Chapter Title: Agent Alert**

**Chapter Rating:** T (16+)

**Chapter Summary:** When Doctor Doom attacks, and the Avengers have to take him on because the Fantastic Four, Phil gets kidnapped. He was _born_ to be an agent – blanking out was never an option.

**Chapter Warnings:** Flashback, implied torture, abusive!papa Coulson, past child abuse, bibliophile!Phil, minor spoilers for Agents of SHIELD, Chronicles of Narnia in the narrative, non-linear narrative, Phil/Clint, language, unBeta'd

**A/N:** The huge block of text in _italics_ is Phil's memories. It is an involuntary reaction to torture – his mind trying to escape the pain – and as such he has no control over them. They are in no particular order. I do my best to leave little clues to indicate when a particular memory is, but it's generally supposed to be a confused jumble.

Also, Clint's commentary near the end of the chapter is his _own_ belief about his _own_ intelligence – it is not a belief I myself hold about any person who is illiterate, for any reason; nor is it a belief that _he_ holds about anyone other than himself. In Clint's case (though at the time of his statement, he didn't know it), his own troubles stem from an undiagnosed learning disability, which I plan to cover later in the series.

**-AIMS-**

Phil Coulson was no stranger to dangerous situations, nor was he unfamiliar with the pastime known as kidnapping – all from outside-op, inside-op, kidnapper, and kidnapped perspectives, too.

He never enjoyed seeing a kidnapping, though being part of the operation trying to undo it often helped. Without a job to do, he either had to turn away or allow his mind to be consumed with the various scenarios of what could happen. Most of them were bad. At least if he was part of the op, he could force himself to focus on his job, could convince himself that (maybe) if he did his job well, everything would turn out alright.

It was even worse going in, if he _knew _that a kidnapping scenario was on the horizon, that the op _called_ for it, that it wasn't just a reactionary operation. Because then, job or no job, he had the time before-hand to worry. And even if he didn't, chances were that at least one person he knew and cared about was going to be on the inside of that kidnapping. An inside-op kidnapping just ate at him, if he wasn't right there to oversee everything.

Depending on who he was being charged to kidnap, on the other hand, occasionally made the exercise bearable – even fun. Skye, for what it was worth, was an amusing target. She was so sure that her equipment and her ties to Rising Tide made her invisible… and she'd been so _shocked_ when they pulled a bag over her head and dragged her away. She didn't fight, and her interrogation was informational and satisfying. Not all targets or missions were as light-hearted or easy; Phil wasn't bent on being a pathological kidnapper, anyway.

The last time he'd been a victim of kidnapping had been… oh, _years_ ago; he was still just a junior, Level 3 agent. He'd proven himself good enough to bypass the Level 1 and 2 recruits, and he'd been so cocky with his perceived success that he'd let it get to his head. His handler had been displeased when she pulled him out. She'd never let him forget it, even though he'd taken the mistake as a personal slight, and begun to cultivate the flawless 'Agent' persona that he now wore.

Being kidnapped for the second time was no more fun than before. In fact, this time – in spite of his knowledge on how to escape traps, learned because of that infantile slip – Doctor Doom was _overestimating_ his abilities, if anything. Phil would have to rely on outside help to get out of this one.

Phil hoped his team would hurry up.

Three hours in – he was only being tortured because Doom was _angry;_ the bastard didn't actually _want_ anything_ – _Phil slipped. His training had prepared him for enemies that would use pain and torture to get information they wanted; he was prepared to wait it out, and keep his mouth shut. But being beaten just for the sake of pain wasn't something that he was equipped to handle – it was too much like his childhood, too little like an op gone wrong. So when Phil slipped, it wasn't into desperate begging for release, or stolid silence against information gathering, it was into his own head. Into whichever memories caught his subconscious's attention quickest.

Phil really, _really_ hoped his team would hurry up.

**-AIMS-**

_He was in the Helicarrier, facing down the world's first evil to merit a meeting of superheroes, with a gun whose properties even **he** didn't know. Then the shocking heat of a blade sliding seamlessly through his breast consumed his attention, the slick slide of blood pouring quickly and unstoppably down his chest a minor tickle in the background of his disintegrating thoughts._

_He was Mommy's little man, and doing what he had always done: hiding when Daddy got mad._

_Mommy was nice, and warm, and soft. When he didn't feel good, she holded him and singed to him and called him sweetheart and tried to hide him from Daddy. When the house was empty (locked, Daddy always locked the doors, and Mommy didn't have a key), they mostly had fun. Mommy taught him how to cook, and how to clean, and it wasn't fun but it wasn't hurtful; how to count, and how to read, and that was fun 'cause he got to help Mommy more and more that he knowed; how to tell when it was a good night, or a night for hiding, and if it was pretend it was fun but it wasn't when Daddy was home._

_Daddy was big, and loud, and hard. When Daddy came home, Mommy told him always and always that he had to be quiet and be hidden. Daddy didn't like **loud brats bangin' 'round this damn dump all the time, Mariam!** He never had fun with Daddy, but sometimes – if he was bestest at being good and Daddy was drink-sleepy – sometimes Daddy would pat him on the head, and make funny noises 'fore snorin'. It was nice 'cause it didn't hurt, and it was the only time a Daddy-touch didn't._

_Now was a night for hiding. Daddy was mad (Daddy was always mad; sometimes he just didn't yell with it). Mommy was crying, and bein' hit, and had lots o' blood comin' out; Daddy was screaming, and stinky like smoke and bad things, and makin' things go crash; and he was hiding in the closet, hands over his ears as tight as they would go, trying-trying so hard to be good for Mommy and not make a sound._

_He did his job as he always did, with the utmost efficiency. He was a master manipulator – no one else could have gotten through to the stubborn kid Barton used to be, or eased Romanov enough to work at least with he and Clint. In comparison, it was too easy to pull these four (five) together._

_The team he built was the best… and more than that, if push came to shove and he had to 'disappear' himself from the prying hands of SHIELD, they would be able to continue functioning together flawlessly, once they knew one another. That was the beauty of enforced teamwork, compatible personalities, and the compassion that comes with working unimaginably close in a small group. They proved his hopes on their **second mission**, even, when the Bus was hijacked. He was so proud._

_Heart aching for his true team, he stayed with this new one, built them up, made them better, patched the broken pieces with all the patience of a saint – because no solid reason to run yet had occurred (he knew better than to listen to **only** his gut feelings except in a fight); because he was still adjusting to a body without his old muscle-memory; and because if he fled too early, they would know what he was up to and he'd never have another shot._

**-AIMS-**

When the team finally cracked Doctor Doom's hiding place, out-gunned his numerous Doombots, and located the room where their handler was being held, Phil was long-gone: unresponsive, glassy-eyed, pale, and trembling. All sense of decorum fled the team as a whole.

A suddenly-furious, incautious Hulk grabbed Doctor Doom and shoved the masked man up against the wall, effectively getting the super villain out of the way. Iron Man had flanked the green rage-monster, in an attempt at keeping the damage to a minimum; upon seeing the Agent, he let the proverbial leash go without remorse. The armor's faceplate lifted when he got close enough to Doom (pinned chest-to-knee by Hulk's two giant hands), and Tony stared coldly at him for a long moment.

"We were going to tie you up and leave you for the Fantastic Four to handle," he admitted softly. It was clear that Doom was beginning to realize just what kind of mistake he'd made, if the choked whimpers were any indication. "It wouldn't have been too much trouble; they were coming back to the States by tonight. Besides, you're their arch nemesis, not ours. But then you fucked with our handler."

Silent as a cat, the huge figure of a Norse god sidled up beside Tony. Tony grinned viciously at Doom – when Thor was controlled enough to will his tall and muscled self _silent_ like that, he was _pissed._ Thor casually palmed _Mjölnir_, and even Tony had to shiver at the aristocratic sneer of a prince forced to recognize the scum beneath his boot.

"No one," Thor growled, "may harm the Son of Coul while I or my shield-brethren draw breath, lest our eyes come to rest on them. You, foul maligner, have sought our attention, and so gained accordingly, it in all its righteousness. This thing will not be so quickly forgiven or forgotten as deeds past. Pray to your gods, while you yet retain thought, because _we_ have _no_ mercy to show you."

He may or may not have understood the whole of the one-sided conversation (the verdict was still up on just _what_ the Hulk internalized from being part of Bruce), but the green figure snorted disdainfully, shoved Doom further into the wall (mindless of the squeak it produced), and nodded forcefully. "Agent _ours._ Doom no nice, Avengers no nice worse."

While Tony, Thor, and Hulk dealt with Doom, on the other side of the room Steve, Natasha, and Clint crowded around Phil. With all the care of those who have seen worse, and understand just what could go wrong, Natasha and Clint pulled Phil down from where he'd been hung from the ceiling while Steve hovered helplessly in the background.

Once he'd been looked over for injuries, and found well enough (under the circumstances) to be moved, the two assassins alerted their teammates. Steve rushed ahead to go prepare the Quinjet for transportation to the Tower, and Tony left Doctor Doom with a scoff, to his fate at Thor's hands. It was surprisingly quick work to convince Hulk to back off because they needed Bruce (_"Nice-suit need puny-Bruce. Thunder-loud smashes Doom. Hulk understand, Star-man.")_

Flipping his faceplate back up, he snapped to JARVIS to have the Medical wing prepped and ready, even as he ushered a quieting Hulk onto the jet. Thor would return under his own power. Momentarily, Tony was jealous that the other was getting to exact the revenge that they all wanted. But then he caught sight of the bloodied, still form on the stretcher, Natasha's clenched fists, and Clint's pale, super-focused eyes, and his stomach sunk.

Phil needed them there right now, not doling out meaningless vengeance.

**-AIMS-**

_How he got off of Asgard and back to earth, he had no idea._

_He'd woken up thinking he'd spent the last couple of months recovering in a boring grass shack Tahiti. The doctors had questioned him extensively – he had, at the time, only assumed they were making sure that his records from Tahiti were up-to-date, and thought nothing of it. The fact that his body had been reconstructed from the ground up, by spells and healers, after the lingering effects of Loki's attack had ruined his body, was not supposed to be something he knew._

_That didn't stop the fact that – once he'd fallen deeply, naturally asleep for the first time in months, cocooned 'safely' in his home – he woke up with the forbidden memories. His training kicked in, and he recognized the tests of the previous day for what they were. He was instantly on guard, and with a little bit of ingenuity (and a liberal use of his for-all-intents-and-purposes 'new' body: faster, stronger, painless, and essentially newborn), he found SHIELD bugs in the home that was supposed to be safe and private and **his.**_

_Realistically, he knew that they would be tracking him, in case of damage or trouble. It was still something else to see it, to understand it was happening. He felt rubbed raw by the agency that had taken him in when he needed a family to turn to, betrayed and yet still stuck to their whims._

_When the Director elevated him to Level 8 clearance, and demanded that he make a new team, to head the search for super-powered individuals, right away. He agreed as easily as he ever had, but inside, he was crying out, demanding that he get a chance to see to his team._

_He needed to see the Avengers, make sure everyone was okay, check them over just like he checked Natasha and Clint after any hard op. They'd told him yesterday that everyone still thought him dead, and it was better for team morale if it stayed that way, still gave them something to fight for. He had his orders, even if he didn't like them and was growing to dislike the place they came from._

_In the only way he could rebel, without pinning himself down as a threat to the agency (because they obviously considered his memories a threat, between the inquisition and the house-bugs), he took to answering the question of Tahiti with only one very key phrase._

_"It was magical."_

_Mother died in the middle of his freshman finals. He got a call from the police, but he missed it because of the test. The voicemail said she only had a little time left, she was in bad shape._

_By the time he got it, and drove like a madman the twenty minutes to the hospital, her room was being emptied._

_Apparently his father had pushed her into the street in a drunken fit of pique. A semi got her. The police had all the evidence they needed, and he was being charged with first-degree murder and a lifetime sentence._

_He never got to say goodbye to her (he never **wanted** to say goodbye to **him**). It was horrible, but at least he didn't have to worry about his father hurting anyone else ever again._

_The first time that he saw the Mandarin on television, he got a bad feeling._

_When the most recent victim was confirmed as one Happy Hogan, and Tony's face was splashed across the screen, he knew that the time was coming._

_Thinking, even for the few days it took the news to confirm that they'd been mistaken, that Tony was dead had been some of the worst days of his life. **If Tony was dead,** his brain hissed, **then how much of a chance did the others have of surviving in time for you to find them and bring them back together?**_

_But Tony survived. The Mandarin died. And he decided it was time to start packing and planning._

_The fact he was sure that the other Avengers were moving into the Tower – there was no other explanation for the reports that Romanov and Barton had **both** gone AWOL, signs pointing toward Stark's place – might have had a little something to do with his final decision._

**-AIMS-**

Between the readings that Bruce got, and the readings that JARVIS's monitors picked up, they were able to deduce that Phil had lost a fair – though not lethal, or even particularly dangerous in and of itself – amount of blood, had been severely beaten, was showing symptoms of shock, and was ultimately unresponsive, with glassy eyes and shallow breaths.

In the medical wing, they hooked him up to an IV drip, and tended to his wounds. The longer he went without acknowledging them, the more edgy everyone got. Finally, with all the wounds cared for and as much damage-control had been done as could be done, Bruce took a deep breath, and declared that Phil was officially in shock.

"His respiration is still too quick and shallow, he's got the shakes in spite of the room temperature, his blood pressure is worryingly low, and this blue tint to his lips is not bruising. He doesn't have any internal injuries – thank God – but that means the reasons for his shock are few and far between," distractedly, Bruce ran a hand through his sweaty curls as he struggled to pinpoint the cause of Phil's distress, and remove it so the man could recover.

"It was probably a reaction to the situation," Natasha offered, eyes flinty and furious. "I know the signs of a bad childhood – I was _raised_ to recognize weakness in people – and over time I noticed he had quite a few. They were small, and easily over-looked as a whole, but they were there. And if you'll notice: when we showed up, all Doom was doing was hitting him. He wasn't demanding a single thing."

She let that hang in the air, and the others slowly bristled as they caught her drift.

"It was a reaction to the situation," Tony mumbled numbly. "It was more than a panic attack, and less than a response to any actual injury. Like the Alerts."

"Damn it all!" Clint hissed, standing beside Phil and holding one of his hands, the archer's whole body vibrating with the need to burn off angry energy and unwanted thought. He hated being helpless, and it didn't get much more helpless than watching someone fight their own demons.

"Your method of easement – the reading of poetry to the Son of Coul – assisted before. Why should a similar thing not work to sooth him, in this?" Thor rumbled, pained blue eyes flickering between Phil's still form and Clint's wrecked expression. Hope lightened his pale eyes, and he fled up the vent without another blink in Thor's direction.

For a moment, everyone was at a loss. Tony, edgy and desperate to do something productive, tracked his progress for the team to see. They all watched as he descended into he and Phil's bedroom, arrowed for the bookshelf, and then shimmied back into the vents.

A banging in the vents overhead physically heralded Clint's return. It seemed he'd taken Thor's suggestion not as an insult, but in the spirit it was meant: cradled in one arm he carried a large, yellowing volume. Immediately, he moved to Phil's side again, and flipped open the book. His mellow voice began to float through the silence of the sickroom, every word carefully enunciated, along with a faint rasp as his calloused finger trailed slowly over the page.

"This is one of your favorites, Phil – CS Lewis. But you've gotta be here to hear it, you know. It's _The Magician's Nephew_." Clint coaxed gently.

As Clint began to speak, loosing himself in the feel and memory of the words more than the page itself, and also to his concentration on their handler, Steve quietly placed a chair behind him, nudging the backs of his knees to get him to sit. Slowly, everyone but Clint – still reciting – and Bruce – around for medical reasons – vacated the wing, with a strict promise from JARVIS to alert them all at the first sign of waking.

"Chapter one: The Wrong Door. This is a story about something that that happened a long time ago when your grandfather was a child. It is a very important story because it shows how all the comings and goings between our own world and the land of Narnia first began…"

**-AIMS-**

_He timed it well; he had to. Too soon, or too late, and – well, this was a haven of spies and information-gatherers. Any suspicious activity, and he'd have a dozen agents after him before he could blink._

_He was done being dogged by SHIELD. He was finished being a lackey. He was tired of being tracked because they were afraid that he would one day learn that he wasn't even in the same body he'd been born in._

_And – according to the news: about the Mandarin and AIM; the reappearance of HYDRA; the issues of golems and giants appearing on earth, as an extension of problems on Asgard; and the 'disappearance' of Natasha, Clint, and Bruce off the SHIELD radar, maybe seen around Stark (the Avengers?) Tower – his team was reassembling badly, and needed him. He had to go._

_So he left his crack team of superhero-detectors to work for themselves, and arrived a couple of weeks later on Stark's doorstep. For records' sake, he claimed to be sent by Fury when the man grew too frustrated to deal with the Avengers' and their personal problems._

_Everyone knew that was a lie, considering that the Director had been unable to directly contact any of the Avengers since Tony got wind of Coulson's possible survival and cut off all contact with the lying one-eyed man. But it was necessary, and Fury later contacted Phil himself, with a quiet thanks and approval disguised behind a heavily-worded rebuttal. Phil nodded politely, and then blew him off. He only worked for SHIELD in the same capacity that his team did._

_He didn't tell them everything (in fact, he told them very little). It was stupid that he was constantly looking over his shoulder, for the day when SHIELD would try to out-power his team and get him back. So he worried alone, and surrounded himself with his lover, his friends, his team, and it was as good as circumstances allowed. They were just happy he was alive, and – quite frankly – he was, too._

_"Please awaken, Son of Coul," a warm voice urged. "The spells have been completed – we now must witness that your mind has not been subverted by your body. Awaken now, Son of Coul."_

_He stirred with a groan. His body was stiff, as though he'd not used it for far too long._

_He was in a strange room, naked beneath a strategically-placed sheet, and being prodded by a tall young man in loose, Asgardian garb. A magician, a healer. As the man helped him to sit up, he saw through a glassless window a sight he'd never expected to see: a long, straight road of nearly-opaque material, both pearly and iridescent. It was badly splintered at the far end – like a shattered stone. The Rainbow Bridge (or, if Dr. Foster had her way, the Einstein-Rosenberg Bridge)._

_"That is good… Be at ease, Son of Coul. All will be well," the Healer soothed._

_Under the Asgardian's direction, he was run through his physical paces, testing muscle tension, joint rotation, ligament stretch, bone density, and things that – still too hazy to do more than obey simple orders – he didn't recognize._

_He'd graduated to Level 6 clearance a while back, when he came across the nineteen-year-old, desperate street assassin. Defiant, green-hazel eyes glared up at him from where he'd snuck up on the kid perched on a cement roof ledge and flipped him over, pinning the kid on his back and the wiry archer's arms trapped beneath his knees._

_"You here t' take the sniper out 'fore I take out my target?" the kid spat._

_"On the contrary, Mister Barton, I am here to make you a deal," he smoothly interjected._

_"Oh?"_

_"I work for an agency called _Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division_. T__hat agency has had their eye on you for some time – your aim and ability, especially at your age and fiscal means is nothing short of incredible. I am here to see if you are amiable to joining us. If not, we will of course leave you as we found you, to your own devices; but if you agree, we will provide all amenities in exchange for working for us."_

_Those piercing eyes drilled skeptically into his face as one dirty-blond eyebrow lifted. He lifted his own in mutual challenge. Testing the waters, slowly he pulled away from where he'd pinned the kid. Immediately – as he knew Barton would do, as anyone with self-preservation instincts would do – the kid leapt up and rolled away, the set of his shoulders defensive._

_"And if I say you're a lyin' bastard? What'cha say t' that?"_

_He sighed in amusement, and reached into his suit jacket. He froze when a gun was pointed unerringly at his forehead. "Easy, easy – I'm just getting a business card. I'll move slow. Easy, now." Inch by inch, he withdrew his hand, a small white card caught between his first and middle fingers. He extended it for the jumpy kid._

_A slender, oddly-calloused hand flashed out and snagged the cardstock. The kid's brows furrowed as he slowly looked over the words, his mouth moving as he… sounded out the words?_

_"… Puh-il Ko-u-lson?" Barton hazarded cautiously, stumbling over the letters._

_"Phil Coulson, actually, but yes."_

_Barton flushed brightly, looking away, and mumbled softly._

_"What was that?" he inquired politely, maintaining his Agent calm._

_"… can't read," Barton mumbled, ashamed. "You sure your agency wants an **idiot?"**_

_He felt his eyes widen. "Just because you can't read doesn't mean you're—"_

_"I've **tried!"** the kid cried out. "I just can't do it! I'm stupid; everyone can read!" He ran out of steam abruptly, wearing a bitterness that seemed well-worn on his face. "Does your agency know they're tryin' to recruit retard?"_

_"Obviously," he tried to reason, "you don't need to read to be an ace-shot. **That** is what my agency and I are looking for. How literate you are is of no consequence."_

_Barton's eyes shuttered with distrust. "Whatever, man. Look, I got a mark I gotta make if I'm gonna get paid t'night."_

_The sniper tried to shoulder past him, and he reached out to grab the stiff shoulder. "Just one more moment of your time, please, Mister Barton? I really need to get back to my boss with a definitive answer, you understand."_

_Perhaps it sounded a bit more confrontational than he'd intended. Whatever it was, suddenly he found himself once more facing down the barrel of a rock-steady gun._

_"You're not gonna force me int' somethin'! I've already been there, done that – for too many people, for too many reasons, 'n' been told to kill too many people in the name of business." Barton snarled, his expression was suddenly that of a cornered animal._

_He knew the expression well, and was prepared to see Barton's trigger finger tighten. Before his consciousness could catch up, he'd already relieved Barton of his weapon and tried to pin him again. This time, the kid was ready, and a silver flash in the calloused palm was warning enough. He leveled his gun and squeezed the trigger, deliberately aiming for a nonlethal shot._

_Barton's face paled, and he bit his lip so hard it bled, in time with the hole in his right thigh. Immediately, he was on the ground next to the kid, pulling away the knife and slipping out of his jacket, using the material as an impromptu compress. He smiled lightly, trying to ease the tension between them, and quipped, "Well, if you were so against the matter, you could have just told me 'no' from the beginning, Mister Barton. You'll be alright, though – I'll see that I get the medical bill, considering it was my fault you were shot in the first place."_

_He thought about it for a second, and then added, "And even if you say no, I'll still pay for it. It would be rude to leave a fellow business man unable to work, when the accident is laid entirely at my feet."_

_Barton looked at him with wide eyes, and in that moment, he suddenly looked his true age and so very young – nothing at all like the trained killer he'd been moments ago. "I—I don't…"_

_"Understand?"_

_"No," Barton whispered, agonized. "What do you **want?"**_

_"Well, Mister Barton—"_

_"Don't!" the kid interrupted. "Don't call me that. 'Mr. Barton' was my father, and then my brother. I'm nothing like them. Don't call me that."_

_He nodded. "Very well, Clint. What I want is simple: I want you to join my agency, where your skills will be put to good use and you will have a reliable pay check, food, housing, and chain of command instead of this risky street business. Barring that, I want to at least make sure that by the time I leave you, the injury I've caused you does you no detriment in a world that is already against you. That is what I want, no strings attached."_

_Barton fidgeted, wincing as it pulled at his wound. He gently patted the boy's shoulder. "It's alright. You don't have to decide right now: I've got to get you to Medical. As it is," he mused with a grin that was only met with bewilderment, "this was probably for the best. You'll probably feel better making a decision once you've had a chance to see us from the inside, anyway."_

_As the helicopter that he'd discreetly signaled once Barton had gone down arrived, he gently hauled the spindly kid to his feet, supporting most of his weight. He smiled down at his companion, and murmured, "Don't worry; it'll be fine. I'm a very respected senior agent, and if I'm vouching for you, not even the balloon-headed new recruits will dare to touch you. I think you'll fit in just fine, though. You'll see. Specialist Agent Barton has quite the ring to it, doesn't it?"_

_And for the first time, he got a tentative smile in return, even as red spilled out onto the concrete beneath them. "Maybe, sir. Maybe."_

**-AIMS-**

"… can get back,' said Uncle Andrew, 'if someone else will go after her, wearing a yellow ring himself and taking two green rings, one to bring himself back and one to bring her back.'" A voice was dictating slowly, precisely.

Phil was cold. His teeth began to chatter horrendously the minute he pried his jaws apart to make a sound. The reader immediately went silent, and then there was a sense of movement, and Clint's voice cautiously prodding, "Phil? Are you with us? Can you hear me?"

A warm, calloused hand squeezed his own encouragingly, and a set of footsteps hurried close. Bruce's voice sounded from Phil's other side, and a blood pressure cuff was adjusted on his arm. "Agent Coulson? Can you open your eyes for me? You've given us quite a scare, you know."

A whine filled the air, and it took Phil an embarrassingly long time to realize _he_ was the one making that noise. Clint's thumb rubbed the back of his hand in circles, and he hummed, "I know, I know: you feel like crap. But we're making sure you get better. You went into shock; the disorientation is expected."

As Phil slowly reordered his brain and the world around him began to make more sense, he cracked his eyes cautiously open. Somewhere in all that, the rest of the team had entered the room (or had they _all_ been waiting like that, for him to wake up?), and he glanced at Clint, the closest and most comforting sight.

"… h'pned?" he slurred through his chattering teeth.

"You were caught by Victor von Doom," Tony offered quietly, his voice like iron.

"Indeed, and we caught the scoundrel attempting to assuage his frustrations on your person," Thor added, expression grim. "Fear not, shield-brother, for we did teach him the error of his ways."

"Whatever he did," Bruce took over (and Phil wasn't born yesterday – even as groggy as he was, he knew what someone looked like when they were trying to hide something), "by the time we got to you, you were pretty banged up, and deep in shock. That's why you're so cold: your body is finally registering the last of it. You'll be fine, though – JARVIS and I have a good handle on things."

The others loitered for a bit, obviously relieved that Phil was okay, and just as obviously trying to hide it. They still weren't used to caring so strongly as a whole for someone. One by one they left, laying a hand on his knee or his wrist or his ankle as they left, reassuring themselves. Bruce decided to leave Phil to recuperate in silence, leaving the monitoring to the Tower's faithful AI. Natasha brushed a hand through his hair, and gave him a knowing look before sweeping out of the room.

Steve stalled, and then awkwardly patted his foot and offered, "You know, Phil, we all have a difficult time of things – it's practically a prerequisite that you have a difficult past before you can join the Avengers… If you ever need to talk, any one of us will listen."

And then it was just he and Clint.

"So, boss man. He hardly touched you, compared to some of the shit I've seen you take over the years."

"Not… not now, Clint. Please?"

"Okay," Clint acquiesced surprisingly easily. He threaded his fingers through his hair, and sighed, "At least promise that you'll tell me someday? Or tell _someone?_ I was scared when you didn't respond, Phil. Even during a panic attack, you made noises, you subconsciously reacted to stimuli… You were like a shivering corpse. I didn't like it."

"… Everyone of you suspects, huh?"

"Well, what do you think, Phil? Four of six of us were abused as kids; five of six of us have seen the horrors of war; four of six of us – five if you count non-permanent instances – have had our bodies completely altered, most against our will. We're an eclectic group, particularly sensitive to the plights of others, if only because we're all so screwed up ourselves. So yes, everyone suspects, and guess what? No one thinks any less of you for it, either."

"Yeah."

Clint's eyebrow rose in silent question, and Phil winced, and clarified, "Yeah, okay. I promise I'll… talk to someone. Can't guarantee it'll be you, but… I'll talk."

Clint fingered the open pages of the book in his lap, avoiding Phil's eyes. Finally he managed softly, "Where did you go?"

"Old memories. First time we met, cooking with my mom, finishing school as a kid. That's all."

"Alright. Hey Phil?"

"Mm?"

"You know I love you, right?"

"Love you, too, Clint. Don't know what I'd do without you."

"… I do. I don't like that me."

"I _am_ sorry for that. If I'd known…"

"I know. Wasn't your fault. Get some rest."

"… 'Kay," he muttered reluctantly.

Clint smiled, the first expression of contentment on his face since Phil woke up. He eyed the book and then Phil knowingly. "Want me finish chapter two first?"

Feeling like a child asking for a bedtime story, Phil blushed, but nodded anyway. He was rewarded with a kiss, and the slow, resuming cadence of his lover's warm voice recounting Polly and Digory's adventure into the Wood Between the Worlds.


End file.
